


Fairchild Clinic

by geoblock



Category: Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare, Shadowhunters (TV), The Mortal Instruments (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, mental health ward au, mundane AU, serious triggers, slow-burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-06-09 00:04:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 51,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6881086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geoblock/pseuds/geoblock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU, Mundane. After a breakdown, Clary in sent to the youth ward in Fairchild Clinic, a psychiatric recovery hopistal. There she meets Jace Wayland, a boy who seems fascinated with the past that Clary has tried so desperately to hide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Clary felt the car accelerate underneath her, and she watched out the window as the shop fronts blurred together. Jocelyn made the green light—just—but only to find another bout of gridlocked around the corner.

“Christ!” her mother growled, slamming her hands against the steering wheel.

“It’s not his fault.” Clary muttered sardonically, watching as a pedestrian they’d been driving alongside for the past twenty minutes surpassed them.

“So you haven’t forgotten how to talk then?” Jocelyn huffed sarcastically, drumming her fingers against the wheel. Her mother was wearing clothes that weren’t splattered with paint—Clary hadn’t known she’d actually owned any. 

Clary didn’t respond, turning away from her mother to stare out the window.

“Look, I understand that you’re mad. It’s ok, I respect that Clary. But you can’t pretend it’s not for your own well-being. It’s only twelve weeks—it’ll be over before you know it! I’m not proud of what I let happen to you, Clary. But we’re going to get through this.”  
Jocelyn lifted her hand from the gearstick, placing it over Clary’s, which lay on the seat. Without meeting her mother’s eyes, or even turning to face the woman, Clary yanked her hand away.

Clary couldn’t deny it—her mother’s hurt gasp was hard to hear. But Clary took a deep breath, bottling the emotions that rose. Don’t think about. That seemed to be Clary’s particular mantra for the past year—and what a hellish year it had been. But Clary was putting it all behind her—or at least trying to. I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams, Clary recited to herself. She piled together her mop of an excuse for hair, fetching a hair tie from her pocket to tie it up. Or would they take that off her in the ward as well? After twenty minutes, they finally broke free of the city traffic, heading for the suburban outskirts of the city. Another twenty minutes passed in awkward silence, before Jocelyn turned the car down side road. They soon reached a grand driveway, closed off with a huge wrought iron gate.

“Another way of being kept in.” Clary muttered, but her mother ignored her as she reached out the window to press the open button.

Clary knew her mother and Luke had set up a payment plan for Clary’s twelve week stay—she wasn’t sure on the details. But as they pulled up to the mansion, Clary gasped. It was like something out of Downtown Abbey—the thing even had turrets and gargoyles.

“You can’t afford this.” Clary stated, turning on her mother, “This is preposterous. I thought it was going be some kind of public hospital ward. Mom, you and Luke can’t—”

“Clary. Don’t even think about the money. All Luke and I want is for you to get better. Nothing else matters, ok?”

Clary took a deep breath, nodding curtly. The quicker she got ‘better’ the quicker she could get out of here.

They parked in the visitors bay, and Clary grabbed her backpack from the boot. The list of ‘allowed’ clothing had been strict—no shoes with laces, no drawstring sweatpants or hoodies. No shirts with particularly graphic logos. Much to Clary’s disappointment she’d had to leave her chucks at home, having to buy several pairs of slip ons. 

Her mother took the lead, striding for the impressive entrance. Clary trailed behind, scanning her surroundings warily. Though the neighbourhood they’d driven through was fairly residential, but this ‘manor’ seemed to be in an almost rural setting. The gardens were admittedly beautiful, but Clary doubted they’d be allowed out much. She didn’t see any of the other ‘residents’ in them now.

“Come on Clary.” Her mother called, already at the impressive set of carved double doors.

The two stepped through, and Clary surreptitiously admired the foyer. It was panelled with dark wood—not doubt Victorian gothic era. There were two staircases on either side of the room, also panelled with carved wood. But when Clary inspected a little closer, she saw the edges of the carving were thick with dust. Jocelyn approached the front desk, which was strangely modern and tacky in the grand room. The woman behind it smiled falsely,

“Good afternoon, how can I help?”

“Clary Fray for admission today?” her mother said in a low tone, as though speaking too loud would cause a crazy to run out and attack her.

“Of course. I’ll just buzz down Alec, he’s one of the nurses who will be showing you two around today. Take a seat.”

Jocelyn sat down on a plushy armchair—the ones that always seemed to be in hospitals and clinics. Clary remained standing, brushing the dust off the edge of a wood panel.

“It’s going to be fine Clary, relax.” Her mother murmured in a soothing tone. “You did agree to come here.”

Clary scoffed, “Right, only because it was this, or be sectioned.”

“Clary, there’s certain actions that they have to take when someone attempts—”

“We’re not talking about it.” Clary snapped.

Being angry at her mother was exhausting, but Clary wasn’t sure how to stop. She felt as though she was carrying a bucket full of acid, and as she lugged it around, the contents slopped over the edge and burned those standing near.

Suddenly a man in light green scrubs was heading down the stairs, beaming at the two of them. His dark hair was messy, yet seemed to fall in a way the framed his face perfectly. His bright blue eyes were startling, and as he stretched out a hand to shake Jocelyn’s, Clary noticed his nails were nearly bitten to the bone, despite the cheery smile.

“Hi Mrs. Fray, I’m Alec Lightwood, one of the nurses in the ward Clary’ll be staying in.”

“Nice to meet you, Alec. Just call me Jocelyn, I’m not a ‘mrs’ anymore.” Her mother tacked on the end.

“Of course.” Alec nodded, before turning on Clary, “So you must be Clary?”

He held out his hand again, and Clary shook it politely. He had a surprisingly firm grip.

“Well, welcome to Fairchild Clinic! If you’d follow me, we’ll give you and your mother a tour of our facilities, and the ward you’ll be staying in, which is on the top floor.”  
They followed Alec up the stairs—he barely looked older than Clary.

“So there are other wards?” Jocelyn asked, and the man nodded.

“A few others. The one Clary’s on is the lowest security, so she’ll have a reasonable amount of freedom. But the clinic also contains an adult ward, suicide watch, rehabilitation homes, and we do house some criminally insane cases.” As though Alec knew he shouldn’t have said that, he quickly backpedalled, “But of course, that’s maximum security. Nothing to worry about.” He said quickly.

“What’s the history behind this manor? It’s simply magnificent.” Jocelyn admired the wood panelling, and Clary knew her mother—a visual person and artist—was taken by the attention to detail in the classic features.

“It’s gothic Victorian—which I’m sure you can tell. It was lived in by the Fairchilds, who were obviously old money, before their family went bankrupt. Then it was bought by a philanthropic doctor, Dr Montgomery, in the eighties. It’s been used as a psychiatric hospital ever since. But don’t think of this as a psych ward Clary. Think of it as a holiday for your head, and we’ll do our best to make it feel that way.” Alec gave her another smile, before they finally reached the top of the stairs.

“So the patients in this ward, they’re all teens like Clary?” Jocelyn asked as the three headed down a hallway. The place was like a rabbit warren, and Clary felt horribly closed in.

“They’re all under twenty one. We’ve actually had a decline in the amount of voluntarily admitted teens in the past year, so we’ve had to put our teens and young adults in the same ward for now.”

Clary scoffed at the word ‘voluntarily’ but both adults ignored her.

“So how many are in the ward currently?” Jocelyn asked, and Clary tried to telepathically tell her mother to stop asking questions.

“Four currently. Sometimes this ward is used as a transition for some of our younger patients before they leave the clinic, and some stay here and only here for a few weeks, like Clary.”

They finally reached a modern looking door, a small window of glass in it. It looked strange nestled amongst the period-style interior of the place. Alec produced a card from his scrub pocket, sticking it in the card slot of the top of the door handle—like at a hotel. There was a click, and he pushed it open.

“What’s the policy on visitors?” Clary piped up, her mind going to Simon. He’d been another big advocator for her admittance to Fairchild, but he hadn’t pretended he wouldn’t miss her.

“They have to sign in, and then they’re welcome to come and sit with you in the lounge, or recreation room.”

“So no telephone conversations through the glass then?” 

Alec laughed, like she’d made a great joke, “No nothing like that. But if you’ve had an incident, we may review visiting rights. But that’s only in extreme cases, and I’m sure you’ll be no trouble.”

Right. Just behave yourself Clary, you’ll be fine.

“It’s recreation time, I’ll take you throw to the rec room so you can meet everyone.”

The hallway was wide, with stunningly high ceilings and more dark panelled walls. They rounded a corner, and Alec led them through arch way. They were in what Clary assumed was the lounge, and a television was haphazardly pinned on the wall above an unused fireplace. They went through another set of double doors, into a high-ceiling room flooded with light from the large bay windows on one wall. This room was beautiful, the walls painted a light blue. The floor was covered with a large and intricately weaved rug, and the room was filled with an arrangement of squashy armchairs and sofas.

“I’ve just had twins, pass me two of the little figures would you Iz?” a boy’s voice pulled Clary’s attention to the figures in the room. Two of them were playing the Game of Life over a coffee table.

“But you don’t even have a wife.” ‘Iz’ replied, and Clary’s eyes drifted over the girl. She was stunning, and Clary felt a pang of envy as she studied the girl’s high cheek bones and shiny dark hair—tied into a ponytail at the back of her head. Maybe Clary would be allowed to keep her hair ties after all.

“I reproduced asexually, meaning that none of my perfect genetics would be tainted by others.” The boy responded in an arrogant voice, and Clary held back a scoff. He was faced away from her, and all she could see was the tangle of golden-blonde hair at the back of his head. He had a nice neck though.

Alec cleared his throat, and all eyes in the room were on her, including the boy’s. Crap, Clary thought, he’s really beautiful. His eyes looked almost golden, and the sharp angles of his only accentuated by the light casting shadows across his face. His limbs were lean, and Clary knew that he would be tall once standing. The boy raised an eyebrow as he appraised her right back, and Clary felt another pang of envy. She wished she could do that.

“Guys, this is Clary. She’s going to be staying with us for a few weeks, so I hope you’ll make her feel welcome. Clary, this is Isabelle.” The beautiful girl waved, “Jace,” the beautiful boy nodded, “and Magnus over there.”

Clary’s eyes were drawn to a figure she hadn’t noticed yet. He was curled up in an armchair, in what was almost a cat-like fashion. He lowered his book, and Clary studied his tan skin and eastern features, which he’d coated in body glitter. He had stunning green/yellow eyes, which he studied Clary with briefly before turning back to his book. 

“What do you think she’d be in a straight-jacket, Alec? Small or extra-small?” Jace commented sarcastically, and Alec froze beside her.

“Funny, Jace.” He responded, giving the boy a forced smile. Even though Jace had directed the comment at Alec, his eyes never left Clary.

“That’d be no use,” Clary replied, just as sarcastically, “I can chew my way out of most restraints.”

Jace’s eyes lit up with amusement, giving Clary a nod, as to say ‘touché’. A silence fell, and Alec turned to Clary’s mother, “Just to reassure you, we don’t use physical restraints on this ward. Jace has an odd sense of humour.”

“Don’t worry, I’m used to it with Clary.” Her mother responded with an eye roll.

“We’ve got another patient—Maia, but she doesn’t seem to be here. Should we continue on with the tour?” Alec prompted, and they turned away from the rec room. Clary could feel Jace’s eyes on her the whole way to the door.


	2. Chapter 2

Alec took them around the kitchenette, dining area and bathroom, before taking Clary to her bedroom. 

“Because we currently have so few patients, you’ll get your own room.” Alec smiled indulgently at Clary, but the more he seemed to do it, the more cracks Clary began to see in it. It wasn’t a genuine smile, one born out of professional necessity rather than actual happiness.  
“This is our residential space,” He told the two, leading them down a narrow hallway, rows of closed doors on either side of them. Once more, the doors were modern, with a small rectangular pane of glass in them. The perfect size for someone to stop outside the door and spy upon the occupant.

“I don’t suppose I could get a door without the peephole?”

Alec pulled a sympathetic face, “’Fraid not. It’s a safety measure. This one is your one.” 

They stopped at the last door on the left, and he opened it. Again, the décor of the room was stunning—high ceilings, delicately painted walls, and a large bay window with a window seat under it and all. But the furniture was modern and basic; one single bed and a plain white dresser. Once more Clary was slightly put out by the juxtaposition of old and new. You think they’d at least try getting gothic era furniture that suited the stunning style of the house. There was a full length mirror in the corner—but Clary could immediately tell it was fake reflective plastic as opposed to glass, like the little play hand mirrors that came with Barbie dolls. Too much risk that she’d smash open a real glass one and use a shard as a weapon against the staff during a psychotic episode. But disappointingly, Clary had never been very good at psychotic episodes or big blow-outs. She was the type to slowly die on the inside. It was much more dignified. 

“No lock on the door?” Clary mused, and Alec again looked apologetic.

“Another safety precaution.”

“Yes, I feel greatly safe knowing that not only can people watch me change from the hallway, they can also barge in as well.” Clary drawled.

“Clary!” her mother scolded. And Alec shook his head in a ‘no, it’s alright’ fashion.

“Should we go see the shared facilities? We do have a rather excellent leisure centre.”

Turned out Alec was actually right—not only was there a fully equipped gym, but also a swimming pool and indoor court. Alec explained that it was shared between all the residents of the Fairchild Clinic, and one of the rare opportunities that all of the residents got to mix. Due to the freedom of Clary’s ward, she was free to come down anytime she wanted, as long as she informed them at the nurse’s station. Alec talked about it as though it was a great act of trust on the clinic’s part, but he hadn’t realised that she’d spotted the security cameras in each corner of the room.

“We believe exercise plays a great part in relaxation and recovery, so whenever you feel particularly frustrated, I encourage you to come down here. Even for a swim.”

Clary frowned, “I didn’t bring my swimsuit.”

“I’ll bring it out to you tomorrow.” Jocelyn piped up.

****

He led them back up to the ward, and Clary listened out for any wailing or muttering in tongues. Unfortunately her knowledge of mental asylums—mostly derived from thriller and horror movies Simon had forced her to watch—seemed to be off, as the halls were silent as Alec led them back upstairs.

“That’s the tour finished! Now we’ll take you up to go through the usual admittance procedures, and you can do those alone.”

The inflection in Alec’s voice was obvious—it was time for Jocelyn to leave. Even though Clary had felt nothing but a bubbling sense of betrayal since her mother had backed her into a corner, she still felt a pang at the idea of sleeping in this unusual place—her mother a forty minute drive away. She didn’t know if the pretty people upstairs would like her, she didn’t know if they’d put sedatives in her food, and after watching that ghost documentary with Simon a few weeks before, she was almost certain a house this old would have a resident evil spirit who was determined on possessing Clary and make her climb the walls while hissing.

“I’ll be back tomorrow with your swimsuit.” Jocelyn promised, pulling Clary into a tight hug. Clary noticed that Alec had drifted off to give the two a private moment. 

“I love you. Just hang in there.” Her mother kissed her on the forehead. No matter how hurt, embarrassed, and betrayed Clary felt, she deeply and whole-heartedly loved her mother. The two had only grown closer after the events of the past year. But there were so many unspoken emotions between the two now, and their relationship had become fraught with complications. It was jarred, not as easy as it had been before.

“Love you too.” Clary replied, trying to keep her voice from breaking.

Her mother pulled away, giving her a final kiss on the cheek before heading down the stairs.  
Suddenly Alec was there, swiping his card to the ward.

“We’ve got to check your bag, but you can witness that. Then we’ll do an evaluation—nothing to worry about.” Alec tacked on quickly, as Clary’s stomach dropped.

Two of the nurses took Clary into their office, where they unzipped every pocket of her bag.  
“Nothing breakable in here?” one of them asked, and Clary took out her phone and laptop. They then up-ended the bag over the table. Clothes, a bottle of nail polish, a hairbrush, and Clary’s deodorant and toothbrush, and a leg razor and Clary’s sketchbook tumbled out, as they shook the bag to every inch of its life. 

“You obviously can’t take this in.” One of the nurses said, holding up Clary’s leg razor. She was an older woman, with light blonde hair tightly pulled back. Her nametag just said ‘Imogen’. Clary figured the whole ‘first names’ thing was to keep up the relaxation vibe they were trying so hard to achieve. Imogen’s face was hard, but not unkind, but Clary made a mental note not to cross her all the same.

“What do I shave with? Do you give me one in there?” Clary asked quietly, trying to keep the whining out of her voice. If they honestly expected her to go ‘all natural’ with boys on the ward…

“We can give you wax strips, or hair removal cream. But no razors.” Imogen replied in a matter-of-fact way, and Clary had to concede.

“That’s fine.”

“You also can’t take this.” Imogen held up the nail polish, “It’s in a glass bottle.”

Clary opened her mouth to protest, but the other nurse cut in. She was young as well, with a sharp chin and distinctly striking face. Her badge read, ‘Aline’.

“This is one of the only wards in the place that lets the residents have their own clothes and possessions, so we have to crack down pretty hard on things that come in. Sorry.” She at least had the good grace to look apologetic.

“It’s fine.” Clary said with a sigh. 

The other nurse grabbed Clary’s notebook, shaking it hard. When nothing fell out, she quickly flicked through each page to check nothing was taped inside.  
Clary opened her mouth once more to declare that the notebook was ‘private’ but it seemed in a place of security cameras and doors with glass panels, ‘privacy’ was just a word.

It wasn’t as though Clary had drawn recently. The notebook had once acted like a diary of sorts, where she’d draw snapshots of the things flowing through her mind. But in the past year, the things she found flowing through her mind were not things she wanted to put on paper. Not only was there a risk of someone finding it, and seeing, but Clary didn’t want to see it on paper, solidified. The events existed in a tightly locked away part of her brain for a reason, and even having to recall the detail enough to draw it wouldn’t help.

“You can’t take this in either.” Aline held up a bobby pin.

Clary didn’t even attempt to protest, and instead looked at each item in her bag as though she was a murderous psychopath—and imagined every item as a potential weapon. Then she began to see why the nurses were being so cautious.

“Your pencils, you can bring them in, but you’ll only be given access to them during recreation time, or under supervision.” Imogen stated, and Clary nodded.

After they made her empty her pockets, she was given a chart filled with various questions. They were all along the same tangent, ‘how likely are you to hurt someone else’, ‘how likely are you to hurt yourself’, and then she had to mark on a scale of one to five. Barely reading the questions, she circled zero for each one, before handing it back to Alec. He made a disapproving noise, but didn’t question her. 

Clary headed back to the recreation room, keen to bathe in the sunlight of the bay windows. In all the rooms of the ward so far, she felt the most comfortable in the recreation room. It was thankfully empty when she entered, and she positioned herself in the armchair bathed in the most light. Clary was almost like a housecat in that way—you’d always find her curled up in the warmest corner of the house, eyes closed.

“The rec room is always the sunniest.”

The voice had appeared out of nowhere, and it gave Clary such a start that she nearly fell backwards in the armchair. Opening her eyes, she found Jace, the boy from earlier, lounging in a sofa across from her. If Clary was a housecat, then Jace was a lion. The sunlight made the golden hair around his head sparkle faintly like an ethereal mane, and his body was languidly stretched out across most of the sofa. But even though his body language was relaxed, his eyes were in narrowed in on her, watching her with a silent intensity. She hadn’t even heard him enter.

“So what are you in here for?” he said lightly, and Clary’s mouth gaped open. Was this standard procedure for psych wards? Did each patient tell each other their issues? Or had she missed out on picking up the sticker that said ‘Hello, My Name Is Basket Case’?

Clary’s mouth popped open and shut a few times, before she felt her eyes narrowing.

“What are you in here for?” she responded, and his analytic expression turned to one of sardonic amusement,

“I was trying to find the café and I made a wrong turn. I’ve been here since.” He said lightly, waiting for Clary’s response.

A ripple of annoyance went through Clary. He wasn’t going to tell her his issues, but he’d set up a trap in which she almost told him hers. Not to mention Clary could literally feel the waves of superiority and smugness that he was emanating off him. The longer Jace sat there, the less Clary seemed to like him. Two can play at that game.

“I annoyed the mob, and now I’m hiding here for my own protection.” She responded haughtily, and she watched a little smile play on his lips. She doubted people indulged his games often.

“You don’t want to be making jokes like that around Imogen. She’ll hook you right up to the ECT machine.” Jace said 

Clary felt her mouth pop open, earning a dark laugh from Jace,  
“You’re not gullible at all, are you?”

Smug prick. In all fairness he’d had her for a second, until she saw his serious expression begin to crack.

“Relax, we’re not looneys. I mean, Magnus does tend to think that he’s an immortal wizard sometimes, but we’re entirely sane usually.” He grinned.

“I think I’m a warlock, not a wizard.” A voice corrected from the shadiest corner of the room, and Magnus stepped out through the doorway into the sun, “And that’s only when I’m not on my meds. They’re called ‘illusions of grandeur’ says Dr. Starkweather.”

Jace rolled his eyes, “He does like his fancy Freud terms doesn’t he? Where I come from, we call ‘illusions of grandeur’ being a posh wanker.”

Magnus tutted, rolling his eyes at Jace. Clary had to admit, if anyone were to be an allusion of grandeur, it would be Magnus. He was much taller than he’d appeared sitting down, and the sunlight streaming in through the windows caught the glitter that almost seemed embedded in his skin.  
“’Posh Wanker Syndrome’ I’m so glad you diagnosed me Dr. Wayland. Schizophrenia was going out of fashion anyway.” Magnus drawled in an unamused voice.

Jace grinned sarcastically, rising from the couch and stretching his muscles, “Great. Now pay me seven hundred dollars.”

“It’s dinner time Clary.” Magnus nodded in her direction, and Clary looked about confusedly.  
“But the sun is still out? It’s barely six?”

Jace bit back a mocking grin, “It’s five thirty. Clary, you’ve got to think of this place as retirement home practice. We get fed early, put to sleep early, and there’s such high turnover rates that people don’t complain.”

Magnus shot Jace a look, “When Jace says ‘high turnover rate’ he means because people leave the clinic, not the mortal plane, like in retirement homes.”

Jace had a malicious glint in his eye, “I don’t know Magnus, quite a few meet their ends at the ECT machine.”

Magnus took a moment to call Jace a few very naughty words. In response Jace shrugged, heading for the dining hall, leaving Magnus and Clary alone.

“I’m sorry about him.” Magnus sighed, “He’s a shit stirrer if ever I saw one, but for some reason he’s taking a particular delight in winding you up. Just ignore him until he gets over it. Believe or not—and I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t—he’s actually a nice guy under all the arrogant bravado bullshit. And I promise you, they don’t do shock therapy here, and there is no ECT machine. And I know that’s exactly what I’d say if there was a secret ECT machine, but you’ll have to take my word.”

Clary laughed, and it felt like the first time in a long time, “Don’t worry, I believe you.”


	3. Chapter 3

Magnus had walked arm and arm with Clary to the dining hall. It was another of the ward’s beautiful rooms, but filled with plain tables and chairs. They were on grouped together on one table, all apart from Isabelle. She was sat off to the side with the nurse Aline, and the two seemed to be absorbed in a low discussion across their table.

Magnus strategically placed himself next to Jace, leaving the space beside the other girl free. She must be Maia, Clary assumed, and the girl stood, extending a hand.

“I’m Maia.” She smiled, “I didn’t meet you before.” She was dressed in jeans, and a tee that said ‘gamers do it better’. It was the sort of shirt that Simon would often wear, and the flare of familiarity made her instantly like Maia.

“Clary.” She smiled, shaking Maia’s hand firmly.

They sat down. Even though Magnus had made sure Clary was the furthest from Jace as possible, the golden-blonde still leant across the table diagonally to her, his arms resting on its surface.

“The bread is the one with sedative in it.” He whispered with a malicious grin. But while the other two groaned insults and pushed him back into his seat, Clary couldn’t help noticing the inside of his forearm, which he’d unintentionally bared to Clary. It was littered with strange round scars, a little smaller than hole punch size, but bigger than a pinhead. Some were newer, purplish and freshly healed. But others were such a light pink they were almost white—and Clary could only assume they were at least a year or two old.

Clary frowned, wondering what they could be from, and lifted her eyes. He’d been watching her the entire time—knowing what she’d noticed. Something flickered behind his eyes, something vulnerable. For a moment he looked like a lion cornered by poachers, or trapped in a net. But then it was gone, and he looked away as though it had never happened.

Suddenly Alec was bringing out their meals on a trolley, and Clary bit her lip. She hadn’t eaten since this morning—but she’d heard notoriously bad things about hospital food. 

Her tray was set in front of her, and vaguely recognized a lasagne noodle in the slop.

“Don’t even try name it, just eat it.” Maia said quietly, “It’s not as bad as it looks. They just have a tendency to overcook things.”

Clary nodded, slicing a piece of lasagne noodle free and spearing it with her fork.

“I think there’s been a mix up.” Jace declared, “I ordered the filet mignon?” 

Alec shook his head, carrying the next tray to Isabelle’s table.

“That joke gets funny every single dinner time Jace.” He responded with a sigh, setting the tray before Isabelle. Alec brushed a hand affectionately across Isabelle’s shoulder, murmuring a few words of encouragement, before leaving the room with the trolley.

Clary frowned. “Isabelle and Alec, are they—”

“Siblings, yeah.” Magnus answered, and his facial expression had gone all odd, “That’s why Isabelle was sent here—her parents thought a familiar face would help with her recovery.”

Clary was surprised she hadn’t noticed it sooner—she was usually particularly observant of faces, as a person who liked to draw them. Or had liked to draw them. Alec and Isabelle shared the same face shape, and their hair colours were identical. But she’d been thrown off because of how gaunt Isabelle’s face was; it was difficult to see past how her cheekbones strained against skin, and how sunken her eyes looked. But the two were undeniably related.

“Do you have any siblings, Clary?” Maia asked, and Clary found herself pulling down the sleeves of her long sleeved shirt—a nervous habit. 

“No, no siblings.” She breathed. Such an innocent question. “Do you?”

Maia seemed to react as Clary had, and this piqued Clary’s interest.

“I had a brother. He passed a few years ago.” She said, her voice unreadable.

“Oh. I’m so sorry.” Clary said quickly, cringing. Way to make yourself popular, Clary.

Maia shook her head, “Don’t be.” 

A silence fell over the group. When Clary looked up at Magnus, he shrugged, as if to say ‘we’ve all got our shit’. 

When Clary’s mother had originally suggested a ‘holiday’ at a psych ward, Clary had been utterly indignant. In her mind, psych wards were for people who were truly ‘crazy’. But speaking to everyone here, she was beginning to lose sight of what that word meant.

Jace had been silent since Clary’s had noticed the weird marks on the inside of his arm, and he piped up. 

“So whose turn is it with the remote tonight?”

Magnus grinned, “That would be me.”

Maia rolled her eyes, “So we’re going to be watching nothing but Project Runway reruns til bed?”  
Magnus winked, “You betcha.”

“Where’s Clary gonna go on the roster? No offence, but I’m not giving up my spot. One of my days falls on when the Walking Dead is released, and if I get put a day behind, all the spoilers online will ruin it.” Maia sighed.

“She can go before me.” Jace said mildly, and Clary caught his eye. He was looking at her placidly, his gaze free of its earlier evil mischievousness. Maybe the boy had multiple personality disorder, because he was up and down like a yo-yo. They’d barely had more than a minutes’ conversation, and Clary already had whiplash.

“It’s fine, I don’t really watch TV. But thanks anyway Jace.” 

It was the first time Clary had spoken his name, but she liked the way it rolled forward in her mouth. Jace’s eyebrows shot up, before lowering right back down again. Hot and cold.

“You said you’re allowed to go online?” Clary probed, turning to Maia.

“Yeah, they turn the Wi-Fi on during rec hour. And if you have a device you can tap into it. But it’s so heavily restricted—I can’t even shop for bikinis online without setting off all the porn red flags.” 

Clary sighed, “Well there goes my ritual midget porn viewing before bed. It’s a shame; nothing calms me down the same.”

She earned a few laughs, and even a snort of amusement from Jace.  
*  
Clary was sure it wasn’t a conscious decision of hers—or anyone else’s in the group—but they seemed to band together. Clary didn’t care much for Project Runway, Maia said she didn’t either, and she assumed Jace didn’t. But the whole group found themselves in the lounge anyway. Usually at home Clary would happily sit in her room away from her family, listening to the conversation wafting up the stairs. But this place, with its high ceilings and threadbare furniture, seemed lonely. If there wasn’t someone else in the room with Clary, she felt a strange wave of isolation. Humans were undoubtedly community creatures. 

It was eight-thirty when Project Runway started, and Isabelle and Magnus were absorbed in a deep discussion about who should win. Maia was playing a game on her DS in an armchair, and Jace was deeply absorbed in a book. Clary had pulled out her notebook and had been allowed access to her pencils, but it was more out of habit than any actual inspiration. After a while of looking at her frustratedly blank page, she lifted her gaze. She found it falling on Jace, but he was too intensely absorbed in his book to feel her eyes. Clary noticed—with much amusement—that Jace’s expressions seemed to change as he read. It was only very slight, the twitch of an eyebrow, the hint of a smile, but these micro-expressions were a surprisingly good view into what he was seeing on the page. He even let out an amused huff at one line, and Clary had to bite back a giggle.

An image began to form itself in Clary’s mind. She saw a lounging Sphinx, with Jace’s head. The boy was distinctly Lionish, and picture seemed to stick. She placed the tip of the pencil to the paper, concentrating intensely on each curve and edge of the image. But it was as though there was a block somewhere in Clary’s arm, and she just couldn’t translate it to paper. Clary attempted a few lines, but they didn’t flow. She let out a frustrated sigh, lifting her eyes back to Jace. His lips were pursed in disapproval currently, obviously unhappy with something happening on the page. That made two of them.

“God I hate ads.” Isabelle groaned, and Clary picked up on the blurts of audio of someone skimming through the channels. 

“Wow, he’s cute.” Magnus exclaimed, and he stopped on a channel. Clary dragged her eyes from Jace, mildly interested in Magnus’ definition of ‘cute’. 

But when her eyes settled on the figure on the screen, her body froze.

No. Not him.

Vague words such as ‘arson’ and ‘charged’ floating from the television—it was a news piece—but Clary could focus on nothing but the sound of blood rushing through her ears. Her entire body was locked into a position of trembling fear, and it felt as though her heart was attempting to pump half-frozen blood through her veins.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she was aware of her pencil snapping in her iron grip, but all she could feel was the intense terror that had rendered her entire body useless, and she couldn’t tear her eyes from his smug face on the screen. It was as though he knew she’d be watching, and he just needed to haunt her one last time.

“Change it Magnus.” Jace was standing up, his fists curled.

“It’s not your remote night. If you don’t like it, leave.” Magnus snapped back.

“Bane, if you don’t change that channel right now, you’ll regret it.” Jace growled, and his voice was deadly cold.

“Fuck off, Wayland.” 

Suddenly Jace was moving at a speed Clary didn’t consider possible, and Clary was almost entirely sure that Jace was going to punch Magnus. But the boy moved past Magnus, reaching down and flicking the plug out of the wall. Isabelle and Magnus cried out as the screen went black, but Clary felt her whole body relax as relief flooded her. She blinked back tears, releasing the pencil she’d crushed in her hand. But nobody noticed as Alec stepped into the room.

“Jace.” He sighed, and Clary had the feeling that Jace wasn’t exactly a model resident, “Let’s go get this incident form done before I clock out. Come on.”

Jace didn’t resist, walking for the door with a defeated stance. But before he stepped through, he looked directly at Clary, his face filled with an intense concern. Had he done that for her? Or had she simply misread his expression? One thing was for certain; her stomach was doing backflips. She wasn’t even particularly sure why.

Her first night had been restless. As though her body knew she didn’t want to be here, it fought sleep. Part of Clary wished they did actually put sedatives in the food—maybe then she’d have slept the full night. It didn’t help that her usual method of stress relief had been taken from her, and she had no way to release all the pent up emotion roiling in her stomach. 

Clary wasn’t proud of her self-developed ‘coping mechanisms’ but it helped. Some people smoked a cigarette; some had two-fingers of whiskey after a tough day at work. Clary didn’t like the term ‘self-harming’, it had such a negative connotation. Even when she imagined a ‘self-harmer’ it was the traditional ‘emo’ kid crying for help. It was a ridiculous stereotype, even more ridiculous because Clary herself defied it. But Clary knew one thing for sure—it wasn’t an attention seeking act. Clary couldn’t think of anything worse than someone seeing her cuts or scars. The night her mother and Luke had found out—no. Don’t go there.

Clary took a calming breath, gathering her towel and clothes. She’d have a long, hot shower and get all of this stuff off her mind. Clary had been woken at eight am by a knocking on the glass in her door, only a few hours after she’d managed to fall asleep. It had been Alec, it was his job to wake everyone in the mornings. He’d also informed her that she had her first therapy session with Dr. Starkweather after breakfast. It was twisting her stomach into anxious knots. 

Clary headed for the bathroom, fighting back a yawn. Maia had told her that she couldn’t linger if she wanted hot water—it got snatched up pretty fast apparently.

Clary rubbed her bleary eyes as she stepped into the bathroom—and she nearly slipped over when she found Jace, shaving his face in the mirror. His hair was still wet from the shower, and his white towel was slung low on his hips. It wasn’t fair—his body was just as chiselled and perfect as his face. It was also dotted with tattoos. And if Clary had a weakness—it was tattoos. Christ. Keep your eyes above neck level Clary.

“I think you’re in the wrong bathroom.” She squeaked, and he chuckled, not taking his eyes off the mirror as he skimmed the blade under his chin.

“I think Alec neglected to tell you that this is a unisex bathroom. It was probably because your mother was there.” He replied.

She frowned, “And how come you get a razor?!” she said indignantly, and he raised a single eyebrow. Clary frowned at his accomplished individual eyebrow muscles, once again feeling a pang of envy.

“Because I’m not a cutter.” He replied lightly, drawing the blade once more across his cheek. The room was so silent that Clary could hear the sound of the hairs being sliced—somewhere between a scraping and bristling as the metal was dragged across the thick hairs. It was a pleasant sound; it reminded Clary of watching Luke shave when she was a child. 

But wait, did this mean she’d just outed herself as a so-called ‘cutter’? Did Jace now know? Her stomach tightened.  
“Then what are you?” Clary asked, deflecting the attention from herself. It worked on most other people—but Jace grinned, like he knew exactly what she was doing. 

“Is this the part where I say ‘I’m a vampire’? I can’t remember quite how that scene in Twilight goes.” He responded lightly, dipping his razor in the sink and swishing it around.

Clary wished she could raise one eyebrow—it would be such a perfect moment for it. “You watched Twilight?”

He shook his head, “Nope.” He’s not going to admit that Clary, even if he had watched it. “I read it.”

Clary felt her mouth pop open, but Jace was concentrating on shaving his chin. It was only then that Clary realised he’d deflected as well, and done a stellar job at not answering her question.

She wasn’t really sure how to respond, and then Jace was turning to face her.

“How old are you?” he asked, and Clary looked at the boy with disdain. Was there going to be some creepy sexual comment about when she was turning eighteen? “But seriously, are you wearing Kermit pyjamas?”

She looked down, she was wearing her long sleeved Kermit shirt, but it was so oversized that it reached mid-thigh.

“And? Why, what do you wear to bed?” she snapped, putting her shoulders back. She wouldn’t be made to feel ashamed—the Muppets were cool. Weren’t they?

“Who says I wear anything at all?” he winked, and before Clary could even think of a response, he was back to shaving.

“I’m having a shower.” She snapped, stepping into the cubicle and stripping down.

All well going well until thirty seconds when the shower cut out to cold. Clary squealed, and she could’ve sworn she heard male laughter from the other side of her shower door.


	4. Chapter 4

Breakfast was nothing to write home about—cornflakes, juice. The best part was catching Jace watching her over his solitary coffee when he thought she wasn’t looking. But that was over soon, and Alec was leading her to Dr. Starkweather’s room, and the cornflakes and juice were churning about uncomfortably. 

Clary wasn’t particularly sure what she was expecting as Alec opened the door for her. Part of her expected a leather chaise, which she’d lie on and discuss all her childhood traumas while a tight-lipped professor wrote out a prescription for lithium. 

But instead she was greeted by another classical room, small, but flooded with light from the single bay window. It was sparsely furnished, with a squashy sofa on one wall, and a gathering of armchairs facing it. It was all done very casually, as though it was a space for a friendly chat as opposed to counselling. 

“Take a seat on the sofa, and Hodge will be here soon.” Alec smiled, and left her in the room. Hodge? That must be Dr. Starkweather. 

She did as she was told, perching herself on the edge of a fabric cushion. This sofa was probably composed of ninety percent tears.

It was barely a minute before a figure bustled through the doorway. Clary wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting—but this wasn’t it. The man before her looked as though he should be in a library as opposed a psych ward. He was wearing a very worn tweed suit, and it seemed to be straining at the edges. He pushed thin framed glasses up his nose before extending a hand. She stood and shook it.

“Clarissa, hi. I’m Hodge Starkweather.”

“Hi. Just call me Clary.” She replied curtly. He’d probably read her file, what was the point in doing a big introduction?

She sat back down on the sofa, and he took the centre armchair, fumbling with the bursting manila file in his hands. Clary had already made her mind up; she’d decided weeks ago—she wasn’t telling Hodge anything. It was her business, and she wasn’t going to lay out all her weaknesses in front of a stranger. It was just embarrassing, and she wasn’t partaking. Clary didn’t need therapy.

“So, Clary. Are you settling in ok?” he lifted his eyes from the file, giving her a smile. 

That wasn’t a particularly loaded question. Wasn’t like he was delving into her deep-seated fear of clowns or anything.

“Uh, it’s ok. Didn’t sleep so well. But everyone seems nice, and my lobotomy isn’t scheduled ‘til next week.”

Hodge allowed a small smile, but otherwise ignored the jab.

“Anyone you’re particularly attached to at this stage?”

Clary was hardly going tell Hodge that Jace did unmentionable things to her unmentionables. She went for a shrug instead, “Everyone’s been nice enough.”

Hodge nodded, “That’s good to hear. It can be a little daunting to start with, but you’ll get used to it. And once you’re settled, I’m sure your sleeping will work itself out as well.”

“Not going to prescribe me something to knock me out?” she joked again, and Hodge shook his head with a little smile again, taking a note. What was he writing?

“Contrary to popular belief, we actually try avoid prescribing drugs, unless we deem it absolutely necessary.”

“That’s a shame, I could’ve had a proper ward party with a few pills.” She said dryly. 

Hodge’s brows creased, “Have you used pharmaceuticals recreationally in the past?”

Clary pulled a face, “No, that was just a bad joke.” No more of those jokes Clary, or he’s going to be jotting down all sorts on his little notepad.

Hodge nodded, but didn’t jot anything down. “So why do you think you’re here Clary? At the clinic?”

Clary frowned, tugging at her long-sleeves. “Isn’t that on my file?”

“I’d like to hear it from you.” He responded calmly, and Clary knew that they were officially past the small-talk bit.

“Well I was backed into a corner. My mother said it was twelve weeks here, or she’d report my—”

The word died in Clary’s throat, and a silence filled the room. Hodge waited for a few moments before probing,

“Your?”

“My ‘suicide’” Clary flexed her fingers in an air quote gesture around the ‘suicide’ word. It had Hodge scrawling frantically on his notepad. Clary held back a sigh.

“Why the air quotes?” Hodge asked quickly, his pen poised on the notepad.

Clary shook her head, but refused to say more. Now they were getting into the topic of ‘things that Clary had pre-decided she wasn’t talking about’. 

Hodge’s pen lifted from the notepad, and Clary relaxed.

“Why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself? Hobbies, your favourite class at school?”

It felt like a summer camp for fucked up kids, “Uh. I am—was a big fan of drawing and painting. I like swimming as well. I don’t really know.” She shrugged.

“You say you ‘were’ a fan of painting and drawing. What makes you say that?”

Clary began fiddling with the hem of her sleeves, picking at a loose thread.

“I encountered an artistic block of sorts, about ten months ago. Haven’t been able to draw since.”

Hodge nodded, taking more notes, “Was there something that triggered this block?”

Yes. “No.”

Hodge raised his eyebrows—she knew he didn’t believe her—but he didn’t push it, simply jotting something down once more.

“We have an art therapy class, do you think that might help?”

“I doubt it.” Clary responded sharply, and a silence fell on the room, “How long does this session go for?”

Hodge looked at his wristwatch, “Usually I try reach an hour. But it’s only been ten minutes.”

Clary tapped her food on the hardwood floor—an indication of impatience. Hodge ignored it.

“I’m still curious about the air quotes around the word suicide. Was it not your intention?”

Now he was coming forward with the heavy questions, and Clary sighed.

“I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking about it at the time. I just went a little deep.” Clary froze up. She’d never talked to anyone about it before—not even her mother or   
Luke—the ones who had found her.

“And then what happened?” Hodge probed again, and it seemed Clary’s list of ‘things that aren’t talked about’ was shrinking under the shrink’s gaze. 

“I passed out, and woke up in the hospital.” Clary responded shortly, looking at Hodge’s shoes. They were old-fashioned loafers, but under his slacks Clary spotted two odd socks—one grey and the other turquoise. 

She could feel Hodge’s eyes scrutinizing her.

“You don’t like talking about it?”

“No, I don’t.” she responded quickly.

“Why’s that?” his pen was poised.

Clary sighed, “I think that’s obvious. It’s… embarrassing.”

Now she’d caught Hodge’s attention, he was observing her with a renewed interest, like some sort of test subject. Clary couldn’t meet his studious eye.

“Why is it embarrassing?”

Clary didn’t like this. She felt on edge and uncomfortable—she’d barely met the man and now he was trying to coax personal information out of her that she wouldn’t have even told her mother.

“Your socks are odd.” She replied blandly, at a terrible attempt to change the conversation topic. Hodge seemed to soften, and he leant back in the armchair.

“My washing machine seems to eat them up. I never have a matching pair.” He replied lightly, resting his pen.

“You should choose a colour and stick with it—then they’ll never be odd again.” She suggested.

“Why don’t you want to answer my question?” he tried again, and Clary knew he was going to be like a dog with a bone.

“It’s a strange question to ask, and it doesn’t really have an answer. I also don’t see the point in talking about it.”

There was a silence, and Clary chewed the inside of her cheek. Would he make her tell him?

“The main point in these sessions is trying to help figure out why you decided to do what you did, so we can help you find better coping mechanisms in the future. To figure that out, it helps if we discuss what drove you to do it in the first place.”

Clary’s body tightened, “No.”

Hodge’s pen couldn’t leap to the notepad fast enough, “No?”

She stood, fisting her hands so Hodge couldn’t see them trembling. “I think I’m done for today.”

And with that she walked to the door, flinging it open. 

“Clary, I—”

She didn’t even pause to listen as she walked down the hall.

*********************************

She stormed into the rec room—and heads lifted.

“That was quick.” Magnus commented, before turning back to his book. 

Maia shrugged, going back to her laptop. 

Isabelle was the only one who didn’t lose interest. “Play Scrabble with me Clary!” 

“Where’s Jace?” Clary responded, sitting opposite the dark haired girl.

“He’s training. You don’t want to play with him anyway—he always thrashes me at Scrabble. I’m convinced he makes the words up but then he manages to produce a dictionary and they’re in there.” The girl frowned as she opened the Scrabble box, laying the board out on the coffee table between them.

“Jace trains? For what? Is he getting the training wheels off his bicycle?”

Isabelle gave a low chuckle, “He’s really into Aikido. It’s a martial art or something. Do you want to choose your own letters?” Isabelle held out the green bag, and   
Clary fished around inside.

“So is that what he’s in for? Going kung-fuey on someone’s ass?”

Isabelle looked suddenly uncomfortable, and Clary bit her lip. Do you always have to put your foot in Clary?

“Sorry, I just don’t know what the etiquette is—” she said quickly, pulling out her seven letter tiles.

“The etiquette about asking why someone’s in the psych ward? It’s ok. Just assume that if they haven’t told you, they don’t want you to know. Some people are more open than others, and Jace is on the more private end of the scale.”

Clary nervously tugged at her sleeves, and Isabelle pretended not to notice.

“You’ve known Jace awhile then?” Clary knew she should stop picking up the Jace topic—but she couldn’t leave it alone, like the slowly healing scabs on her arms.

Isabelle smiled, laying her tiles out on the little rack,

“We became friends on our first admittance. We kept up outside of Fairchild—when Jace was on the radar of course. I hadn’t heard for him for a few weeks before this re-admittance, and he was here by chance.”

Clary knew it wasn’t any of her business, but she couldn’t help herself… “So you’re like… together?”

Isabelle inhaled so sharply she choked on her own saliva. She took a minute to recover before looking to Clary, “God no.” she croaked with a smile, “No, Jace and I never clicked like that.”

Clary blushed, “I just figured as you’re both pretty people and all…” 

Isabelle smiled, patting Clary on the arm, “You’re sweet. But honestly, hooking up with Jace would be like hooking up with my brother.”

Clary flinched, fighting the darkness that swarmed her mind. She didn’t realise her nails had broken the skin of her palm until she felt the wetness of blood.

“Of course.” Clary replied coolly, Isabelle was watching her curiously, not bothering to hide the confusion on her face. “Do you want to go?” Clary nodded at the board.

With this Isabelle’s attention was back on her tiles, away from Clary. It gave Clary a moment for wipe her bloodied palms against her jeans.

*****************************************

It was barely fifteen minutes before Aline stuck her head into the rec room, announcing that Clary had visitors. It was probably a good thing—she was totally thrashing Isabelle at Scrabble.

Clary scooped her hair into a ponytail as she walked for the nurses’ office. It’d be her mother with her swimsuit, maybe Luke. But Clary bit back a squeal as she recognized her favourite nerd lingering awkwardly in front of her parents.

“Simon!” she cried, pulling the boy into a tight hug.

“Hey, Clary.” He murmured, returning her hug with just as much gusto.

She greeted her mother and Luke with a little less enthusiasm, but they didn’t comment on it. Alec suggested they sit in the dining room, and Clary turned on the jug in the attached kitchenette for coffee. One thing Clary did find herself missing—freshly brewed foamy cappuccinos. All they had was instant.

“How was your first night Clary?” Jocelyn asked gently, as Clary took a seat opposite.

“It was ok, it’s a bit weird sleeping in a new bed, but I should be ok.” Clary replied, looking to Simon beside her, “Should I show you my room?”

Simon nodded, and they stood.

***************

“Hello MTV, welcome to my crib…” Clary said, opening the door to her room. Simon took one look around before stepping inside, easing himself onto the bed.

“This could do with some more springs.” Simon mused, rocking on it.

“At least there’s no leather cuffs attached to each corner.” Clary joked, and Simon snorted.

“Yeah, in all honesty I’m a little disappointed. Where are the people rocking in foetal position and whispering in tongues?”

Clary laughed. Simon was one of the only people who could manage to make her laugh these days, “That’s what I said! I think this is just the first level crazy though. Sorry to disappoint.”

“And you haven’t started planning a revolt against the oppressive staff yet?” Simon joked.

Clary turned her face into an expression of mock sincerity, “Shhh! There’s microphones in the walls.”

Simon actually jumped, looking around anxiously, and Clary broke into peals of laughter.

“Simon, oh my god. You watch too much TV.” She said between giggles. The boy visibly relaxed, before his face turned genuinely serious. Clary knew he was about to say something intense, she could almost see him forming the words in his mind. She’d known Simon almost all her life, and he’d been nothing but her best friend that entire time. She could probably read his expressions better than she could read her own. 

“I know you hate us for it Clary. But I’m glad you’re here. I miss you like hell, but you look… lighter. Not like that night—”

“Don’t.” Clary snapped, and Simon froze. He was probably the only person in the world who knew close enough to the truth, but he didn’t know the whole truth. No   
one would know the whole truth.

“Are you ok Clary? Seriously ok? Not like putting on a brave face for Jocelyn, but actually ok?” Simon stood—Clary only just noticed he’d grown slightly taller.

Clary took a shuddering breath. She wouldn’t cry. “That’s a big question Si.”

Simon pulled Clary into a hug, resting his chin on her head. Sometimes with Simon Clary could pretend it was as it had been. Easy. 

Clary took a few gulping breaths as she tried to settle her nerves. She wouldn’t cry.

“Who’s that creep looking through glass of your door?” Simon asked, and Clary whipped around. But the glass panel was entirely empty.

Clary shot Simon a look, “Are you seeing things? Do you need to be admitted Si?”

Simon shook his head, “He was definitely there. Golden hair. Arrogant looking.”

Of course.

***************************

Clary was sitting on her bed, waiting. Once it had set the fear of God in Clary, and she could barely move for dry retching and full body shakes. But now, she faced it calmly, gifted with the ability of cutting herself off. It was as though she would watch from above. Yes, Clary was down there. But she wasn’t really there. Clary took a few deep breaths as footsteps sounded from the hall. She could get a weapon—she’d thought about it. But she’d never overpower him, and she’d face his wrath later. And if they saw him hurt—questions would be asked. Questions Clary wouldn’t—couldn’t answer. Questions he’d made sure would never be asked, and answers he’d made sure would never be believed. She’d tried before, to tell. He’d found out. Being close with the school admin—he’d dropped a few comments about Clary’s wavering sanity. She was in and out of therapy, she was attention seeking. Nobody really wanted to know, so they’d eaten it up. The doorknob was rattling now, and Clary let out a wail. Even though she’d told herself she wouldn’t show fear—she’d gone and betrayed herself. Again. Clary needed to keep him out. She knew there was a way. She’d asked her Mom for a lock—but this was an open doors household. Her mother thought giving Clary a lock was Clary cutting herself off from the family, the slippery slope of the destruction of the family unit. If only she knew. 

Clary looked around desperately, there must be a chair or something she could jam under the door handle—like in the zombie movies she and Simon watched every Scary Movie Saturday. Clary was never sure how that worked to keep people out. But there was no chair in here anyway. Clary had to hurry; he was moments from getting inside. The only thing in the room was a solid looking dresser. She hurried to it, half lifting half dragging it across the ground. As soon as she rammed it against the door, the handle ceased. Clary wished she could breathe a sigh of relief—but she knew he’d find another way in. He always did.

************************

Clary awoke to a frantic tapping on the glass. She sat up quickly, wiping the drool away from the corner of her mouth. Alec was rapping on the pane of glass, an almost disappointed expression on his face.  
“Clary?” he sighed, before pointing to the dresser that was jammed against the door.


	5. Chapter 5

Clary received another cold shower that morning, and she entered the dining area with a scowl. Isabelle was off on an individual table with Aline, the two murmuring across it in hushed voices as per usual. But only Maia was at the usual table, and she beamed as Clary came in. It wasn’t unusual for Magnus to miss breakfast—somehow he always managed to sleep through Alec’s irritating glass taps and wake-up calls. But Jace was usually here.

Clary decided she wouldn’t ask, but when Maia’s eyes met Clary’s, the girl smirked.

“He’s training.” Maia explained, reading Clary’s mind so effectively it made Clary’s face flame. She thought of denying it, but there was no point. Clary had barely taken her seat before Alec rolled the food tray into the room. Clary noted the pink spots high on Alec’s cheeks, and turned to share a look with Maia. The girl already had her eyebrows raised.

Alec took the first tray to Isabelle, before bringing Clary and Maia their meals.

“You ok there Alec?” Maia asked shamelessly. Alec’s head jerked as though Maia had pulled him from a deep reverie. 

“Ah. Yeah, fine. Yeah.” Alec answered airily, his face creased into a child-like frown as he set their trays down. “Is it hot in here, or is it just me?” he whined, tugging the collar of his scrubs.

Clary and Maia shared a look. The former was wearing a thick woolly cardigan, the latter was wearing two layers of socks. The ancient house wasn’t particularly well insulated, and the crisp December winds managed to find their way through every crack and fissure in the mansion’s structure.

“I think it’s just you Alec.” Clary responded politely, and boy the seemed genuinely surprised.

The girls didn’t respond, and it wasn’t long before Alec was drawing the trolley from the room.

Maia turned to Clary, her mouth open to speak, when the loud scrape of a chair interrupted them. Isabelle was standing, her whole body trembling.

“No! I’m not fucking eating it Aline—” 

“Isabelle, please—” Aline said calmly, but Clary could sense the almost inaudible twang of panic in the nurse’s voice.

Isabelle eyes were glistening as she grabbed the plastic tray of food—a plain piece of toast, a hardboiled egg, and a bowl of fruit loops—and flung it across the room. It hit the wall with a sharp bang. Clary didn’t realise that Isabelle’s bony arms were capable of such strength. Food was splattered across the wall, the milk from Isabelle’s fruit loops was sprayed across it like some kind of gruesome cereal murder.

Clary turned to Maia, gaping, but then realised her breakfast companion was staring into her cornflakes intensely. Clary thought maybe Maia was going to fling hers too, but then Clary blushed in realisation. Maia was being respectful, not staring at Isabelle open-mouthed as Clary had been. Jesus Clary, ever socially sensitive aren’t we? Clary mimicked Maia’s stance, taking a renewed interest in her jelly smeared toast.

But it was impossible not to listen to the dialogue between Isabelle and Aline, fraught with tension as it was.

“Isabelle.” Aline said softly, as though Isabelle were a startled horse. “You know what happens now—”

“I hate those meal replacement shakes, Aline. They taste weird and chemically, and I always feel so bloated afterwards.” It sounded as though Isabelle was trying to whine, but her voice was simply contrite.

“Come on Iz.” Aline answered, ever gentle once more. Clary was still staring at her toast as their footsteps left the room.

Clary lifted her head, swearing that she wouldn’t say anything. She’d lost count of how many times she’d put her goddam foot in it, and she was not going to do it again.

“That’s such a shame.” Maia sighed, filling Clary’s determined silence, “She was doing so well.”

A thousand and one questions sprang to Clary’s mind, but she forced them back. It was none of Clary’s business. She caught Maia’s eye, and the other girl smiled in a sad sort of way.

“Isabelle struggles with anorexia nervosa.” Maia answered Clary’s unasked question, “Has done since she was thirteen or so.”

Clary frowned, “Wouldn’t Isabelle mind that you telling me?”

Maia shrugged, “She’s very open about it. I think she’s past being ashamed of it.”

Clary questions were quelled for now, and she tore away a piece of toast and popped it in her mouth. Unbidden, an image had risen to Clary’s mind at Maia’s words. She pictured herself, walking to Java Jones in the summer. She was wearing a tank top, each scar and healing cut bared to every stranger and passerby that dared to look.

*********************************

Clary was back once more on the tear-stained sofa. Hodge was watching her intently, his pen once more poised. The incident report that Clary had been forced to fill out after the ‘dresser barricade’ that morning was clutched in his fist, slightly damp from his sweaty palms.

“Could you tell me in a little more detail what happened Clary?” he probed. 

“I already wrote out what happened on the incident report.” She responded dryly. Her eyes were drawn to a cobweb in the corner of the room, where a buzzing fly was fighting for freedom. But the harder it seemed to pull on the unyielding web, the more tightly it was ensnared. Was it a form of divine symbolism, or was it just that this room need to be dusted more often? Clary refrained from scoffing.

“Yes Clary, but all you’ve written is ‘I pushed the dresser against my door’. I was hoping for further explanation, perhaps a reason why?” Hodge responded, not unkindly. His patience seemed to be as elastic as a piece of well-chewed bubblegum. No doubt from the screeds of other angsty and resistant teens who’d been on this couch before her.

Clary debated whether or not to lie. But in the end she decided against it. Her mother had always said Clary was a terrible liar, as her face was far too open. Apparently it could be read like a book. Not to mention Clary didn’t have to tell the whole truth. Just one half-truth, and hopefully Hodge would be satisfied.

“I wasn’t aware I was doing it. I did it in a dream.” She admitted after a few minutes silence.

“What was the dream about?”

Clary fingers ran the length of the couch, and her left hand found a sticking out piece of thread to twiddle. Her right hand fluttered awkwardly back into her lap.

“I was being chased.” She answered, a half truth. 

“Did your chaser have a face?” Hodge asked, barely looking up for scribbling notes.

“No, he didn’t.” Clary answered immediately, but it was too quick.

Hodge raised his eyebrows. “But it was a man.” It wasn’t a question.

Clary sighed in defeat, not answering. But it was enough for Hodge. He frantically scrawled away on his notepad, and Clary listened to the pen scratching away. Once that noise had been calming to her. It was the sound that would often fill Clary’s room after a particularly inspirational day, as Clary drew out the mental pictures that had latched onto Clary, to form a diary directly from her mind’s eye. It was often the little things—a stray cat with stunning eyes, a smashed in window, a funny shape in her foamy cappuccino at Java Jones. But these little pieces formed a story that only Clary could read.

Clary was jolted from her thoughts as the sound of pen on paper ceased, and Clary felt Hodge’s gaze on her once more. She didn’t return the eye contact, instead focusing on a slightly loose wooden floorboard to the left of Hodge’s chair.

“Do you have these dreams often? Being chased?” Hodge prompted.

“Not usually.” The dreams were normally much worse.

The ever expressionless Hodge let out a slight sigh—and if Clary hadn’t been so still she would’ve missed it.

“You seem rather uncomfortable Clary. If you’d like to continue this topic tomorrow, I’ll let you—”

He was giving Clary an out, and she took without hesitating. Standing, Clary left the room without even a glance back.

*************************

Clary felt stretched taunt, and she was beginning to fray at the edges. Being here, it was like being cooped up in her own head. At least out there, the real world, she could distance herself from all her shit. She’d go to school, go out with Simon, sneak into nightclubs and drink. She wouldn’t give herself a minute alone with her mind, and she could push it deeper and deeper down. Clary was the master at distracting herself. But here, they tried to pull it out into the light. She was getting sucked back into it again, and fighting it all away was wearing her out. But she couldn’t sleep, seeing as the exhaustion was strictly mental. Clary didn’t get much physical activity cooped up in the ward, which was probably why she found herself tossing and turning that night. As each conscious hour trickled by, and the more Clary danced around the edges of sleep, the more frustrated she got. At one thirty Clary sat up, cursed at herself, and grabbed her bikini. 

Swimming had always had a calming effect on Clary. When she was a kid she’d spend most of her summer in the lake at Luke’s farmhouse, pretending to be a mermaid. She’d flit above and below the water, twisting, turning and diving. She’d feel streamlined and slick, but she probably looked like she was drowning. Simon would join her too, but he was never as graceful as her. He thrashed about, struggling without his glasses and his severe lack of co-ordination. And after the video rental store accidently gave them Jaws instead of Pocahontas once, Simon had been convinced a great white was lurking under any body of water waiting to snatch him. Even after Clary had explained that it was impossible for a shark to be in a freshwater lake.

Clary left her room, walking through to the nurse’s station. She wasn’t even sure if they’d let her go at this time, but it was worth a try. Clary had rehearsed her line a few times by the time she got there—but there was no one there to receive her. The nurse’s station was strangely empty, the CCTV monitors lighting the vacant desk chairs. Clary took this as a sign from the universe to go, and she pushed through the door with a triumphant grin.

Clary retraced her sketchy memory of Alec’s tour. It was three flights of stairs and two corridors before the scent of chlorine hit her, and Clary felt energised. It wasn’t quite the crisp, earthy smell of Luke’s lake, but it was close enough. She headed down a slippery tile hallway, taking a left into the women’s changing rooms.   
She stripped off confidently, feeling freedom in her aloneness. It seemed like the ward made efforts to keep you surrounded all the time, and Clary realised this was her first truly alone moment in days. 

She folded her pajamas neatly before stepping into the bikini she’d bought in the summer. Clary had always worn one-pieces until quite recently, owing to the fact that she hadn’t gotten curves until a few months ago. Whenever she’d worn bikinis before then she’d always look like an over-sexualised nine year old. But then Clary had felt the changes under her clothes, the slight curve to her waist, and the cup size increase. So when she’d gone out shopping the summer just passed, she’d actually chosen a piece of swimwear she liked—not just something that didn’t sag in the bust. It was so nice to wear something that enhanced the boyish curves she’d grown, making her finally look her seventeen years. Unfortunately she’d never gotten to wear it—the marks on her arms had prevented that. Instead she’d spent summer making excuses, even when Simon had pleaded Clary to join him in the lake.

Clary tied up the string of her bikini behind her neck, striding for the pool. Stepping through the doors to the where the pool lay was like being engulfed in a block of solid humidity—it seemed to cling to her skin. It held the cloying scent of pool chemicals, but Clary inhaled it all the same. The room contained two pools, one large, and the other a smaller spa pool. The lights of the room were off, but the pool lights were on. This gave the room a feeling of privacy in the semi-dark, the way Clary liked it. Plus the steam and humidity was an indicator that the spa was on, and Clary was glad. She could dip in there to warm herself up, before making her way through the drafty manor back up to her room. But she went for the big pool first, standing at the edge of the deep end. Clary had had a few lessons at her local swimming pool, and she now set herself up in her best diving position. It had been a few years since the lessons, but Clary was glad to see that she made the dive with only a tiny splash. The water was bliss on Clary’s skin. As soon as she broke the surface, she felt her fervid mind clear into a calm blankness. All she concentrated on was the feeling of water on her skin as she treaded to stay afloat—another skill she’d been taught at her swimming lessons.

“This is usually my midnight swim for brooding purposes. One of us may need to change our schedule.” An amused voice sounded from behind her.

One thing her swimming lessons hadn’t particularly prepared her for though, was what to do if you found an attractive intruder in your pool when you assumed you were alone. The shock was enough that Clary momentarily forgot to tread water, and she found herself sinking with a very ungraceful splutter. But she’d barely caught   
herself before a pair of strong arms found her waist, and she was being hauled upwards. 

Jace set an indignant Clary on her feet in the shallower end of the pool. His arm was still tightly around her waist, as though he was suddenly expecting her to start drowning in four feet of water. Clary tried to fight back a blush as her stomach simultaneously lifted and dropped at the skin contact. She was in a darkly lit pool with an unnaturally pretty boy, wearing a swimsuit so small that her mother had tried to return it to the store behind Clary’s back. Plus he was touching her, kind of intimately too. It didn’t help that it felt as though he had tiny little electric buzzers under his skin, like he was giving Clary tiny little zaps of electricity where their skin connected. He was also the first and only boy to touch her so intimately—well apart from—no. No. Clary’s whole body seized as flashback ripped through her, and she roughly pulled herself from Jace’s grip.

“I was fine.” She snapped, glaring up at the boy. His face was only dimly visible in the pool light, but the shock on it was evident. But it only lingered for a few seconds—if you’d blinked you’d have missed it—before smoothing out into its usual expression of arrogant amusement.

“In many wider-used dialects of English, we refer to that as drowning.” He replied coolly, running a hand frustratedly through his sopping hair. The water had turned the golden-blonde locks lighter, and the pool lights lit it up like a strange kind of halo.

“You gave me a fright, that was all.” Clary responded weakly, as her eyes—of their own accord—skimmed his bare torso. Whatever training Isabelle said he did, Clary could see it clear as day. The pool lights cast slight shadows, shading and outlining every twist and curve of tense muscle under his golden skin. He looked as though he’d been sculpted, and Clary shivered—though not from the cold. 

She caught his eye, unsure of where else to look. But then she noted with a blush that his eyes were drifting like hers had. His gaze burned a trail up the pale plane of her stomach, across her collarbones, neck, jaw and then, the tiny pieces of material across her bust. She was unable to fight back the blush this time, and suddenly Clary appreciated how small the bikini suddenly felt. She folded her arms across her chest, covering the barely there cleavage, yet more importantly, the scars and cuts that marred the inside of her forearms.

Jace cleared his throat, “I can get out if—”

“It’s fine. Stay.” Clary said quickly, then she cringed. She currently felt split right down the middle—one half of her was screaming ‘DANGER’, and wanted to get as far from the man as she possibly could. But then the other part of her was craving the little electric zaps she’d felt across her skin as he’d touched her waist, and she wanted every inch of his accessible skin on hers so he could light up every circuit of her nervous system like a throwing a hairdryer into a bathtub.

“Alright.” He replied cautiously, and she knew he was treading carefully. “You should probably stay in the below four feet part of the pool though. I don’t know if I’ve got another heroic save in me tonight.”

Clary scowled, “I’m actually five feet two inches. And a half.” She added, at his look of mocking. “Right.” He laughed, and it was a sound surprisingly free of sarcasm. He launched away from her suddenly, lazily making his way to the end of the pool and back. 

“So what brings you to the pool of brooding? Aside from catching me half naked and dripping, of course.”

Clary rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t keep the grin off her face. “Well I’ve lost the element of surprise, so drowning you isn’t an option anymore… but apart from that I was hoping for some time alone and a pleasant swim.”

Jace made his way back to her slowly, only unsettling the water a little with his lazy strokes. Clary felt her heart begin to thrum in shameless anticipation, and she was surprised it wasn’t creating little ripples in the water around her bust.

“Up there can get a little… crowded, can’t it?” he said lightly, and Clary felt relieved that someone else felt it too.

She nodded, and she found herself start to ramble nervously as he closed the few feet between them, “Everyone’s really nice, but I just feel like all their problems kind of crowd in on me sometimes. Like today at breakfast—you weren’t at breakfast, were you?” Clary nearly bit her tongue off in an attempt to stop her much too personal blabber. But if Jace noticed, he didn’t seem to mind.

“I wasn’t at breakfast, no. I was training.” He was standing before her now, and the water that rose to Clary’s chest only rose to just under his ribcage.

“What is it you train for again?” she asked. With other people it would’ve been a bad attempt at small talk, but with Jace she actually wanted to know. The man was shrouded in mystery, and Clary felt like peeling away the tough layers of sarcasm and arrogance that seemed to encase him.

“Aikido. It’s a Japanese martial art. You use your centre of gravity to throw off your opponents. It’s mainly defensive.” He explained, his eyes skimming her once more. 

Clary felt self-conscious again, but she tried to refrain from showing it outwardly, putting her hands determinedly by her sides. Jace had probably seen lots of girls half naked—probably much prettier ones too. Looking like he did, he probably had a supermodel girlfriend. Some tall, leggy, pouty type—everything Clary would never be.

“Have you been doing Aikido long?” she asked.

“Since I was eight.” He responded absent-mindedly, “I used to enter competitions. Won a few.”

“Used to?” Clary knew she shouldn’t be prying, but each of his answers only raised more questions. And she couldn’t seem to stop herself around Jace. “Why’d you stop?”

He didn’t respond at first. Instead he stepped closer to Clary, making her shudder in anticipation. But she was taken aback when he reached up, grasping at her ponytail. In one smooth motion he freed her hair from its tie, and it fell across her shoulders.

“Circumstances.” He sighed, and he took a moment to—admire? Clary didn’t want to sound arrogant—her locks, before he took a step away from her and dropped beneath the surface of the water.

Clary took a shaky breath, trying to compose herself as Jace swam around underwater. It wasn’t like she hadn’t gone swimming late at night with a boy before. When she and Simon stayed at Luke’s farmhouse, they’d often sneak out for a swim in the lake if it was a particularly sticky summer night. But there was something different about this—something too intimate. She was hyperaware of the exact distance between her and Jace’s bodies, and how it would only take half a second for her to reach out and pull him closer. It was making her stomach twist and flip in all sorts of unnaturally acrobatic ways.

Clary had barely managed to get a grip on her nerves before he popped up, watching her with a mildly curious expression on his face.

“So what does your boyfriend think of all this then? The clinic and everything?” he asked lightly, and Clary’s stomach gave a particularly uncomfortable jolt. She wasn’t sure why.

“Boyfriend?” she managed in response.

“That boy that visited you the other day. The one you were getting all snuggly with.” 

Clary wasn’t sure if it was just her idealistic imagination, but she swore she heard something like annoyance in his voice, as if he were talking about a particularly big   
bug he’d squashed.

“Simon isn’t my boyfriend.” Clary responded quickly, “We’re just good friends.”

Jace scoffed, “Hate to break it to you, but he wasn’t looking at you in a ‘friends’ kind of way.”

Clary opened and closed her mouth a few times, unsure of what to say. Nearly a minute had passed before she finally spluttered, “What about your girlfriend then?”

He chuckled humourlessly at this, still watching Clary with an unreadable expression. “I don’t do girlfriends. I’m already deeply and eternally in love with myself.”

It was Clary’s turn to scoff, followed by a comfortable silence.

“You still haven’t told me why you’re here.” Jace pointed out.

“I don’t see why it’s important.” Clary snapped aggressively, but she was unable to meet Jace’s eye.

When he spoke this time, his voice was softer, lacking all traces of cynicism. “I like to know people’s stories. But I find myself wanting to know yours especially.”

Clary wanted him to back off the topic, but she could hear the barely concealed curiosity in his voice—it was the same she felt towards him. He’d indulged her questions, so Clary supposed it was her turn now.

“My story really isn’t that interesting.” She conceded with a sigh.

There was a pause, “Who was that guy on the television?”

Jace didn’t need to elaborate, and Clary sucked in a breath. “My brother, Jonathon.” She answered shortly.

“The news report said he was on trial for arson—”

“Yeah.” Clary choked out. Black spots had begun to form at the edges of her vision as her breathing came in short gasps. She’d never talked to anyone about Jonathon—it got too unsettlingly close to the truth for her liking. But there was something different about Jace, and Clary was worried that if he asked, she’d probably tell him what had happened to her.

But it seemed Jace could see this topic was upsetting Clary, and he didn’t probe anymore. He simply said in a wry tone, “At least you’re not the biggest fuck up in the family then?”

It was a few moments before Clary trusted herself to speak.

“So what’s your story then?” she asked lightly, expertly pulling the conversation away from herself.  
If Jace noticed, he didn’t seem to mind.

“I guess you already figured out why I’m here. I saw you looking at my track marks.” He replied, but his voice wasn’t accusatory. 

“No? What are track marks?” Clary couldn’t keep the curiosity from her voice.

In response Jace bared his forearm, showing her the strange punch-hole shaped scars she’d spotted at her first breakfast at the clinic.

“Scars left over from intravenous drug use.” He explained, his voice strangely distant. “Heroin. I’ve been clean for six months next week.”

Clary didn’t have much experience with drugs—apart from the D.A.R.E program at school—so she wasn’t surprised that she hadn’t recognized the odd marks on the inside of Jace’s arm. She was a little shocked, but she wasn’t particularly sure what she’d been expecting from Jace. 

But when she thought of heroin addicts she thought of homeless junkies—not boys like Jace. 

“You don’t seem like—” she started.

“I don’t seem like a heroin addict?”

Clary blushed, because it sounded all the stupider coming from his mouth.

But he just shrugged, “I’ve come to realise that most stereotypes about addiction and mental illness aren’t particularly accurate. The whole idea of the heroin junkie getting high in an alleyway is old hat really. It seems there’s just as many supermodels and movie stars abusing as there is scruffy malnourished guys in drug dens.”

Clary chewed her lip, “So you’ll be out of here soon?”

Jace seemed to relax as they moved off the topic of his addiction. 

“I’ve got a month and a half left.”

Clary treaded deeper, letting the water rise to her neck.

“And after that? Is it back to your parent’s house or…?”  
“My parents are deceased, actually.” His voice was expressionless.

Clary’s stomach did a nose dive. For God’s sake Clary!

“Sorry.” She said quickly, but Jace shook his head.

“It’s fine. I was only six months old when they passed, so I don’t even remember them. I’ve actually lived with my adoptive father for most of my life.”

It seemed like Jace was tensing up again.

“My fingers have gone all wrinkled.” Clary stated, not wanting to enter any conversation areas that were going to make Jace uncomfortable, “I think I’m going to go back up.”

It wasn’t like Clary had invited him too, but Jace nodded, “Let’s at least have a quick dip in the spa first. I didn’t switch it on for nothing.”

“One could think you were trying to seduce me.” Clary joked lightly, swimming for the ladder.

“Am I that obvious?” he responded, and Clary chewed her lip as she tried to decipher whether he was joking or not.

The five minutes they spent in the spa were in relative silence. Jace sat back in the steaming water, his eyes closed in relaxed bliss. Clary watched him intently, yet guiltily, as a pink flush spread across his sculpted cheeks from the heat, barely visible in the low lighting.

And still Clary felt two halves of herself becoming further estranged from one another—one crying out for Jace’s lips on hers, silently pleading for the boy to cross the mere inches between them and seal his mouth to hers. The other half was frozen up in fear, comparing all their intimacies to the torture she’d endured with Jonathon, as though her brother’s hands had branded themselves across the surface of her exposed skin. 

She continued to feel the tug and rip of each half of her will pull her back in forth like a tug-o-war, until Jace stood, offering her his hand. She took it keenly, yet reluctantly all the same, and he helped her from the spa. It wasn’t until he reached for his towel—which he’d placed beside the spa—that she realized.

“Oh.” 

Jace turned to her. He was so beautiful it made her breathing stutter.

“What is it?”

“I forgot a towel.” She stated, folding her arms across her rapidly cooling body.

He gave her a bemused smirk. “Another plot to keep me half undressed? I don’t blame you I suppose.”

But with all his sarcasm, he handed her his towel.

She headed for the changing room, changing into her pyjamas as fast as possible. She didn’t want Jace to be stuck, dripping wet and cold.

She raced to the men’s changing room, towel outstretched in her hand for him.

Clary rounded the corner to the changing room anxiously.

Jace was waiting on a wooden bench, a hand skimming up the inside of his arm nervously. Clary was sure he wasn’t aware of his action.

“Your towel…” she indicated her presence, and he stood, seemingly breaking free of a reverie. 

She handed it to him. But instead of grabbing the towel, he grabbed Clary’s wrist, ever gently. 

“Do they hurt? The chlorine in them—”  
Jace traced a hand gently over one of the fresher cuts, only a week old. 

If anyone else had touched her cuts, Clary would’ve screamed bloody murder. But something in Jace’s touch didn’t make her feel ashamed. It was a concerned gesture, one of protectiveness as opposed to judgement.

Clary’s stomach felt as though it was trying to flutter away, “It stings, but it’s fine.” She responded quickly, but she was reluctant to pull her arm from Jace’s grip.

“Don’t ever be ashamed.” He said, almost with a sense of urgency. Clary had never seen such an expression of pure openness on Jace’s face before. It was as though everything else had been stripped away, and he finally seemed to look his age. Usually he carried a cynicism beyond his years, but it had vanished. Clary wasn’t sure if she was supposed to be seeing it—this was much to intimate for her. 

“I’m not—” she started.

But instead of letting her finish, Jace simply took the towel from her. 

“You can stay and watch me get changed if you’d like, but we haven’t even been on a date yet. I do have some morals you know.” He said lightly.  
And his guard was up once more. Though Clary didn’t know the man well, she knew she’d just seen a rare and intimate part of him, meant for her eyes only.  
“I’ll wait for you outside the changing room.” Clary responded, and she walked for the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for being slack with putting this chapter up, but I've got exams atm so all my energy is going into study.


	6. Chapter 6

Alec started on the first door in the hallway, tapping on the glass in Maia’s door. He heard her stir, and he stepped for the next door—Izzy’s. His sister was already awake, curled up in bed with a book. She waved at him as he passed, a sleepy grin on her face. He beamed back.

Alec had been working at Fairchild Clinic for almost a year now. He’d gotten the position straight out of college, after he received second place nationally in his final exams. Alec had always been an academic, finding solace in the straight-forward field of logic and puzzles. High school hadn’t been much of a social experience for him, and he’d ended up with marks good enough to enter any college degree he could’ve possibly dreamed of. His parents were expecting him to go to law school, or become an engineer—just something that made him powerful and wealthy. There was outrage when he’d decided to become a mental health nurse. His parents—his father especially—had seen it as below Alec, a career path that was entirely ‘average’. The Lightwood name had produced prominent political figures and award-winning brain surgeons, not nurses. But Alec had enjoyed every minute of his studies, never once regretting his decision. Alec figured he’d rather be doing a job that he loved and making an average wage, rather than a job that he detested and be rich.

Alec’s original interest in psychotherapy and illnesses of the human mind had started when he was barely seventeen. His parents—with their busy and high profiles jobs—didn’t notice when Izzy got sick. They were of the generation that still counted sickness as a physical attribute, not a mental one. So when they finally registered Izzy’s calorie counting and excessive exercise regime, they figured their daughter was simply taking a renewed interest in her health. But only Alec was around to see how Izzy’s face twisted when he set dinner down before her. How she chopped it up into tiny pieces and pushed it around the plate, not a morsel touching her lips. How she’d count each and every single calorie, even breath mints and cups of tea.

The elder Lightwoods had always placed a large amount of pressure on their children. Alec had always avoided the brunt of it, with good marks and little interest in partying. Max had always been too young to feel or notice it, so Izzy carried most of it. Izzy did averagely in school, and she’d never found a sport or area of the arts that she excelled in. Izzy preferred nightclubs and boys with motorcycles that caused trouble. This was not what the Lightwoods expected from their only daughter.

So as their parents had bared down on Izzy—controlling and monitoring every move she made—she exercised control over the only thing she could. Her weight.  
Alec had felt so powerless, watching as his sister’s bones strained against her skin, as if fighting to break out. So he’d turned to the books—his usual coping method. There he’d studied eating disorders, but his research soon pulled him to other mental illnesses. Then he fell through the pages, devouring theorems, medical journals, personal experiences, Freud, Jung, anything he could get his hands on. It fascinated him that the squishy thing that sat inside everybody’s skulls was so largely undiscovered, so misunderstood. Especially when it started to go wrong.

By then he was only months from graduating high school, but he already knew where he was going. By this time as well, Izzy’s condition was rapidly deteriorating at such a rate that even their parents noticed. Izzy was first hospitalized two days before Alec started college. 

Though Alec had tried to help his sister—spending late nights nodding off over medical textbooks—Izzy didn’t want to be helped. And there, before he’d even started his college course, he’d had his first lesson in psychology 101. If a person is to get better, they need to want to.

Alec tapped the glass on Jace’s door, but the blonde boy wasn’t in there. Training no doubt. He used the facilities so much that he had a permanent key card. Alec was sure he abused it a little—for things like late night spa swims—but Alec didn’t really blame him. He wasn’t hurting anyone, so the nurses let him slide under the radar.

Alec approached Magnus’ door with trepidation. The memory of yesterday morning’s events still brought a blush to Alec’s cheeks. 

Alec had been doing his morning wake-up call, as he was now, and as per usual he reached Magnus’ room. Magnus had a particular skill for sleeping through Alec’s glass tapping and wake-up calls. So, as per usual, Alec had approached Magnus’ door with his fist tightly screwed, prepared for maximum knocking. But Magnus hadn’t been in bed. The boy had been up—which was a shock at any rate. Magnus had his back turned to the glass—and Alec had been about to exclaim in surprise at Magnus’ sudden change in waking pattern—when Magnus had stripped off his shirt. 

In hindsight, which was 20/20, that was when Alec should’ve walked away. At that stage, it had still been an accident. Alec could’ve apologised to Magnus, and then had a few words about not getting changed in front of the glass.

But Alec hadn’t been able to move. His feet were entirely stuck. Alec had felt his face flame as he’d studied the lean lines of Magnus’ back, and the way his shoulder blades rippled as he’d untied the drawer string of his pyjama pants. But Alec’s jaw had well and truly dropped when Magnus had removed his pyjama bottoms in one quick action. For one, Alec got a glorious view of the two dimples right above Magnus’ buttcheeks, which made Alec’s stomach twist and turn in all sorts of alarming ways. But secondly, Magnus hadn’t been wearing anything under his pyjama pants. Not even underwear. Just nothing. 

But the whole scene grew even worse—or better, depending how Alec thought of it—when Magnus turned to look at his peeping tom. 

Alec saw everything. But the worst bit was the effect that everything had on every inch of Alec’s body. It felt as though someone had lit off a hundred and one firecrackers in the pit of Alec’s stomach, and now they were all pinging around his body madly letting off cracks and bangs as they tried to escape.

Magnus hadn’t seemed the slightest bit alarmed by Alec’s shocked face at his window. Magnus hadn’t even made any attempt to cover himself. He’d simply raised one eyebrow at Alec, and smirked, his intense eyes glittering with uncontained mischievousness.

So, for obvious reasons, Alec was breaking a sweat as he approached Magnus’ door. Forty nine percent of Alec—the part that wanted to keep his job—hoped that Magnus would be fully dressed, and remain that way. But fifty one percent of Alec—the red blooded and rarely seen side of him—wanted Magnus to be very much undressed. 

Yet Magnus was very much dressed, sitting on his bed with a book. Alec let out a sigh of relief, tinged with disappointment.

Alec tapped the glass, “Can we talk for a minute Magnus?”

Magnus gave Alec a quick nod, and Alec let himself in.

An awkward few minutes passed as Alec opened and closed his mouth, Magnus watching him expectantly. 

For all Alec’s dwelling on the events of yesterday—and fantasizing, but he wasn’t going to admit that—he didn’t have a clue what the hell to say to Magnus.

“Yesterday morning—you can’t—” he finally spluttered out.

Magnus’ eyes lit up,

“Not to your liking? They wouldn’t let me bring my feather boa in, see.”

Alec let out a strange noise, like a strangled choking cry, as unbidden of images Magnus and his feather boa sprung to mind.

“Magnus—” he managed, “I’m your nurse. I’m contractually and professionally obligated to not to have that kind of relationship with you—”

“But if you put professionalism aside…?” Magnus’ tone was light, as it usually was. Alec thought that Magnus always sounded as though he was in on a joke that no one else knew about. But for all Magnus’ amusement, his voice seemed to be carrying an essence of gravity. Now more than ever.

Alec fiddled with the hem on his scrubs.

Alec wasn’t experienced with romance. With his head buried in books all the time, he hadn’t lifted it enough to investigate the world of dating. Plus the risk of his parents finding out about his sexuality… For a twenty year old, Alec was woefully inexperienced. And then there was Magnus. Grand, ethereal Magnus, who carried so much grace and power for someone barely twenty-one. When Magnus had first crossed the threshold of Fairchild Clinic Alec had been inexorably drawn to the crackling energy Magnus seemed to exude, not to mention his unusual green-gold eyes. Magnus’ eyes were so much older than the body they possessed, and seemed to be filled with a sadness that hinted to the things they’d seen. Though Alec had tried to see Magnus as a patient—not an alluring and mysterious man—it had proved impossible for him. He’d taken too much interest in Magnus’ recovery, poring over Magnus’ file a few hundred times too many. But he’d never expected a man like Magnus to be into a mere boy like himself. What could glamour and sophistication incarnate see in an inexperienced book worm?

But Magnus was in front of him, enquiring about Alec’s not-so-professional feelings.

Alec sucked in a breath,

“Magnus—” he began.

“Alec.” A female voice sounded from behind Alec. It was Aline, leaning against Magnus’ doorframe. If she was surprised to see Alec in Magnus’ room, she made no indication, “Breakfast is ready to be served.”

Alec couldn’t contain a sigh, “Of course. I’ll be right there.” He turned back to Magnus, the flutter of nerves he’d felt in his chest had begun to still, “Magnus—” he tried in explanation.

But Magnus simply nodded, a kind of ‘we-can-talk-about-it-later’ kind of nod.

Alec left Magnus’ room, heading for the kitchens. He bit his nails the whole way there.

*************

Jace was at breakfast. 

Clary, much to her embarrassment, nearly let out a sigh of relief. 

Last night hadn’t felt quite real. The pool lights and silence had given the whole scene a hazy, dream-like quality. And if Jace hadn’t been at breakfast, Clary would’ve been sure that she’d imagined the whole thing—including Jace—up. Because no other way would she have believed that a boy like Jace had even the slightest interest in midnight swims with Clary. He looked like someone had mixed an angel, a male underwear model, Michelangelo’s David, and some eyelash growing serum all together to form the masterpiece that currently sat across from her at the table, sipping soupy black coffee.

Clary occupied her shaky hands with buttering jelly onto her toast. 

Even though Clary’s intention was for a quiet night swim, it had been good that Jace had found her—aside from the obvious reasons. It turned out a towel wasn’t the only thing Clary hadn’t forgotten in her rush to escape the ward. She’d entirely forgotten about getting back into the ward, which required a key card. Jace was allowed one at all times, and he’d smirked as they re-entered the ward. 

“Though coming out to find you dripping wet in a bikini would’ve made my morning a lot more interesting,” he’d said, “I think the hypothermia would’ve found you   
before I did.”

Clary hadn’t replied—she didn’t want to inflate his head anymore—she’d simply quietly nodded in agreement.

Clary’s eyes flicked up from her toast, and they met Jace’s across the table. With that eye contact came the inevitable flutter of nerves in Clary’s stomach, but it was accompanied by a twinge of doubt and self-consciousness. Was she supposed to be making eye contact with him this much? Should she tone it down? It wasn’t like anything had happened, or had it? Would Jace consider last night as an indicator that Clary was interested in him? Or was it just a friendly swim, with utterly no romantic insinuation at all? 

Clary brought her toast to her mouth weakly. She wasn’t experienced with boys in this way—the sort of ‘weak knees’ way. She’d known Simon since she was even smaller than she was now, but he wasn’t really a proper boy. He was just Simon. So Clary was woefully inexperienced—and she felt it even more around Jace.

********************

Hodge bumbled into the counselling room, trying to keep a firm grip on his paperwork and files. It was two weeks until Christmas—one of his busier periods. It was understandable really—parents felt the financial strain of buying presents, and there were all those awkward encounters with extended-family members. Hodge wasn’t surprised that people were looking for therapy. 

Hodge himself had never settled down. He was far too absorbed in his work to make time for a wife, let alone children. Not to mention he saw teens everyday who’d been generally ruined by bad parenting. Hodge couldn’t have the responsibility of not wrecking someone’s life on his shoulders.

Instead Hodge threw himself into other people’s problems. He spent most his time at Fairchild Clinic, working with the majority of the patients. But he also received clients that had been recommended to him, or clients that had specifically head-hunted him.

But this morning he was in the lightest-security youth ward at Fairchild. When he’d started here, he figured it would be one of his easier placements. Yet he forgot how angsty teens could be—his teen years had ended many moons ago. 

But Jace Wayland was one of his easier patients. The boy was a natural cynic, but carried a wisdom beyond his years. Hodge supposed the wisdom and cynicism came hand in hand.

The boy stepped through the doorway, moving for the couch. Hodge wasn’t sure how to describe the way the boy moved; he seemed to carry himself with a cat-like grace that came with mastering a martial art. Hodge himself had tried Judo as a teen, but it had never gone very well. Hodge simply didn’t possess the skills of coordination. 

The boy sprawled himself out on the sofa, his lean limbs confidently taking up as much room as they required and more. Hodge could often read his patients by the way they sat—Clary for one would sit with a stiff back, her hands fluttering the length of the sofa anxiously. Yet Jace met Hodge’s eye boldly as he lounged on the canary yellow sofa, brimming with confidence boarding on arrogance. Yet Hodge knew the boy was overcompensating.

“How have you been, Jace?” Hodge initiated, fumbling for his pen. “Still counting down the days until you leave?”

Jace shrugged, “Sort of.” 

“Sort of? A few days ago you were telling me about the countdown calendar you’d made. What’s changed?”

Jace ran a hand messily through his hair. The boy had musician’s fingers, long and angular. Yet they were calloused roughly, showing the hours of training he put himself through.

“Hey, Hodge?” Hodge didn’t correct Jace’s informal use of his first name, “Can a girl and a guy ever be just friends?”

Once Hodge had been taken aback by Jace’s conversation tangents. Jace preferred to lead the conversation, which was the opposite of Hodge’s therapist instincts. Yet soon Hodge realized that this was how Jace aired the things on his mind, and he let the boy talk. But this question was particularly unusual.

“I don’t know—” Hodge replied, momentarily flustered.

“I know I shouldn’t be asking you for girl advice. But I can’t ask Alec, for obvious reasons. And Magnus is far too nosy… so you’re my only go to in here. I’m sure you’ve had some experiences with women though? Don’t answer that, it's rhetorical.” The boy said quickly.

Hodge put his pen aside. “If you want to be just friends with a girl Jace, all you need to do is tell her. I’m sure she’ll respect your boundaries—”

Jace shook his head, “No it’s not me. But say a girl swears she’s just friends with another guy, but the other guy isn’t looking at her like a friend.”

Hodge raised an eyebrow, “So you think the girl is lying to you?”

“No!” Jace replied immediately, a look of indignation crossing his face, “She wouldn’t do that. Or I don’t think she would anyway.” He added.

“So why are you feeling this way then?”

Jace shrugged, “When I saw them together… I just… I don’t know. He’s a little dweeb anyway. He’s got nothing on me. But I just…” 

A rare silence fell over Jace, and Hodge tried to refrain from taking notes. Something told Hodge that Jace wasn’t looked to be counselled as such, he was just seeking advice. Jace hadn’t had a father for the past few years, and Hodge realized that he was the closest thing to a paternal figure in Jace’s life right now.

“What you’re feeling Jace, is jealousy. It doesn’t particularly matter if this girl and boy are involved or not. It just displays the feelings that you’re developing towards this girl. And I can understand why—with a past such as yours—why you may have feelings of distrust. But the best you can do is have faith in your own feelings Jace. You feel things for a reason, and whatever you feel is valid.”

Jace raised an eyebrow in Hodge’s direction sceptically, but it seemed that the boy was taking in Hodge’s words.

“You haven’t written any of this down.” Jace stated, after a few minutes silence.

Hodge nodded, “I thought you were seeking advice, not counselling.”

Jace’s face broke into a sardonic grin, “Don’t tell me I’m one of your boring patients now doc.”

And Jace’s sarcastic façade was initiated once more. Hodge avoided indulging him.

“Have you had anymore thoughts about what you’re going to do once you leave?” 

At this Jace seemed to tense.

“Not really.” He replied, dropping the confident eye-contact with Hodge.

“Have you considered Isabelle’s offer?”

Jace shrugged, “It’s unreasonable. I know she and Alec wouldn’t mind me living with them, but I don’t know how their parents would feel about a recovering drug addict under their roof. Especially with how Max is…”

“You don’t think Isabelle knows that? I just think you should seriously consider it Jace. Both Alec and Isabelle know your needs and they care about you deeply. I think it would be a safe place for you, even for your first few months out of the clinic.”

Jace exhaled shakily, before tracing a hand up the inside of his forearm. He was running his fingers over his track marks—a nervous habit that Hodge swore the boy was unaware of.

“Have you got any other ideas of where you’d go?” Hodge prompted.

Jace shook his head, “I guess I’d just bum it like last time.”

Hodge couldn’t help it; he let slip a noise of disapproval. “That wouldn’t be conducive to your recovery Jace. That’s part of the reason why you’ve been readmitted—” 

Jace held his hands up, “I know, I know. I just don’t want to have to rely on anyone. I’m fine on my own.”

Hodge sighed. He couldn’t help it, he felt unusually protective over Jace Wayland. He’d been a client of Hodge’s for a year in total, which wasn’t the longest Hodge had ever had a patient, by far. So it wasn’t longevity that caused these feelings in Hodge. It was something about the overly-confident boy that screamed ‘vulnerability’, which struck a dormant tutelary feeling within Hodge.

“You’re eighteen Jace, no one expects—”

“I’m nineteen next month.” Jace pointed out childishly.

“Yes, but still, no one is expecting you to live entirely independently. I know you’ve been doing it a long time, but there’s nothing wrong with depending on people. It doesn’t make you weak Jace.”

Jace sighed, seemingly defeated. Hodge made a few notes on his notepad before continuing. 

“Is there anything else you’d like to talk about today?” 

Jace seemed to think for a few moments before answering, “I’m seriously going to change my name.”

“You’ve decided?” This topic came up once every few weeks, with Jace talking himself in and out of his decision.

“Yes. I’m not a Wayland. I don’t want to be associated with… him. I’m a Herondale. I was born a Herondale, and someone has to carry the family name on.”

Hodge nodded, “So you want me to make the arrangements? You’ve really made up your mind this time?”

Jace nodded, his strange gold-tinted eyes glowing fiercely, “Yes. I have.”


	7. Chapter 7

Though Isabelle didn’t sit ‘with’ them for breakfast—and Clary would hardly say she knew the girl well—her absence during the first meal of the day was glaringly obvious. The room didn’t feel quite right without her in it, and it seemed to supress any sign of spirit in the room.

When Alec brought in their breakfast, he and Jace shared a look of painful intensity—something Clary had never seen the likes of before. It seemed as though they were having a silent and very detailed conversation, and Clary couldn’t understand a word of it. But it seemed to end as Alec gave a curt shake of head. Jace gave a frustrated huff at this, standing from his chair and striding from the room. The surface of his barely touched coffee had shivered as he’d slammed the door on his way out. Clary assumed he’d gone to the leisure centre, and this was where she suddenly found herself drifting, with each equal parts eagerness and reluctance.

It wasn’t until she reached the door to gym area—through which she heard Jace’s grunts of exertion—that she released how voyeuristic it was. She barely knew Jace, and she knew Isabelle even less. Yet here she was, intruding on a very personal and private problem that she had no right to. Clary’s face flushed suddenly, mortified at her own actions. What would they think of her, barging in on them? She shouldn’t act so damn familiar, she was just an outsider—

“Is someone there?” Jace’s voice was muffled through the thick wood of the door.

Clary had been so lost in her embarrassment that she hadn’t noticed that the grunts on the other side of the door had ceased.

Clary’s stomach swooped as her blush deepened ten-fold. She turned to leave when the door swung open, Jace filling its frame. Morning light had flooded the gym behind him, and he was simply a shadowed silhouette in its glare. 

Clary wished she could see his expression more than ever. Was he annoyed about being intruded upon? Disappointed that it was her? He was probably hoping for Alec, or Isabelle. But was he possibly—and she found herself wishing—relieved? 

“Clary.” He stated simply. If his expression was unreadable, his tone was more so. Clary was sure she could take those two syllables and craft a ten page analysis on them. But as soon as the thought struck, she scolded herself for being so whiny. 

“Sorry, I was just—” she replied confidently, but her voice died as Jace stepped back to let her in.

He held the door open as she passed, and Clary tried to conceal a face hot enough to fry an egg upon.

Clary watched the boy silently as he went back to his punching bag. With a slinking grace that was more feline than human, he struck out, striking the bag with a powerful blow. The bag had barely quivered before he struck out with his foot, in a perfectly placed kick that landed dead centre. 

Clary was utterly mesmerized with the way he moved—almost in a circular motion—before placing a strike. He seemed to move almost languidly, yet Clary could see the deadly accuracy and control behind each attack with the violent quiver of the punching bag. Yet now that he was in the light, Clary could see the sheen of sweat that covered his neck and arms, almost making him glitter in the sunlit room. 

“Izzy’s relapsed,” he grunted, placing a lightning fast jab on the punching bag. The chain it hung from groaned, “she’s back in the intensive care ward.” Another jab. “I should’ve fucking done something. I didn’t go to breakfast, I didn’t see—” he was raining blows on the bag now, and it protested under his assault, “I was so fucking absorbed in my end date here, I didn’t fucking—”

With a tearing noise of surrender, Jace’s fist perforated the leather of the bag. He withdrew his raw hand sharply with a growl, and snapped both arms to his sides. He stood like a trained solider—back stiff and eyes focused on something above Clary’s head. Clary was confused, or at least until she noticed his shaking fists and rapid blinking. He was trying not to cry. Clary felt something inside her crack,

“Jace.” She said soothingly. His body seemed to relax slightly, and he managed to meet her eyes, “You know it’s not your fault. If Izzy was going to relapse, it was going to happen. There’s nothing you can do to fix the things going on inside her head Jace.”

He sighed, and Clary knew he understood. But frustration was still etched deeply into the lines on his face.

“I could’ve done something.” He insisted, raising his hand again—but this time it was only to trace the tear in the punching bag with the tips of his fingers. He had strange hands for an athlete—long and wiry, almost skeletal. 

“She’s getting the help she needs.” Clary insisted.

Jace gave a ragged sigh, running a messy hand through his golden hair, which was slick with sweat. There was a silence, but something told Clary that she shouldn’t break it. Jace was frowning, staring intently at a patch on the floor, as though he was trying to remember something long forgotten, or phrase something indescribable. 

“Izzy was the one who introduced me to Fairchild. She pushed me to admit myself.” Jace came out with, after many minutes silence, “When we met… I wasn’t in a good place. All my friends were either addicts or dealers, and I was either high or about to get high most of the time. I didn’t eat, I barely slept, I wasn’t really living. Just existing. That’s the thing about addiction—it’s all about escapism. I didn’t want to be me, so I rejected and mistreated my body because I didn’t care about being in it—being me.  
"We met at a club in the city, to be fair I was pretty high at the time, so this is only what Izzy told me. She said that I looked utterly ruined, and I know now that Izzy is a sucker for the underdog. She likes rescuing the tragic cases. So she followed me around for most of the night, making sure I was ok. She found out from some of my friends—though ‘friends’ may be the wrong word—who I was and whose couch you’d usually find me crashed out on. So she found me the next day, and she brought three hamburgers and a milkshake. She didn’t eat any of course—which I didn’t notice at the time, but she was just as sick as me—but she wouldn’t leave until I’d finished the whole lot. I thought it was pretty strange at the time, but I brushed it off as a weird one-time occurrence. Until she came back the next day, then the day after that, then the day after that. It went on for a month, before she bought me a cellphone and insisted I come to her house once a week for proper home-cooked food. And if I ever skipped, she ring and text me persistently until I told her where I was, and then Alec would come pick me up. God knows why she chose me, I mean there’s plenty of other tragic cases out there, but I’m glad she did. Izzy probably saved my life more times than I can count. Izzy and Alec were the only thing stopping me from being a drug overdose statistic.”  
Jace paused, lifting his eyes from the floor. They were burning with emotion.  
“I just want to protect her for once. I want to help her the way she helped me. I’ve taken so much for granted, and I’m trying to find the right way to repay her.” 

A thousand and one questions flooded Clary’s mind, and she could barely grasp a single one through the white water current of her ever-streaming thoughts. But she found the words tumbling out of their own accord, 

“She said you two became friends on your first admittance, I had no idea—”

Jace seemed to loosen at this, and managed a shrug,

“Yeah, Izzy was just leaving the truth to me. She knows I’m a private person, and she lets me share as much as I’d like to be shared.”

There was a silence—Clary was still mentally spluttering under the churning rapids of her thought-stream—when Jace cracked a wry grin.

“Sorry. I do speeches. You’ll get used to it.”

At that another question rose from the incoherent wash, “You shared with me.” Clary found herself saying, and it was less of question more than an observation loaded with agenda.

Though Jace gave another shrug, it didn’t seem to come from a carefree place this time around, “I’ve got to have someone to practice my speeches on. The mirror in my room isn’t a very receptive audience.”

Clary gave a snort, and the meaningful atmosphere of the room was gone, as though it had been pricked with a pin. It seemed to be that way with Jace, every vulnerable moment of his was sporadic and volatile. Clary could feel the thin, taunt skin that seemed to envelop them during these conversation, and Clary waited for it to break in the awkward pauses and extended silences. Yet Jace’s vulnerability timer had only seemed to grow around Clary—their conversations continued to grow in length. But Clary couldn’t help feeling confused. Why was this boy giving parts of himself to her, when she wasn’t doing it in return? Was he expecting her to?

“Do you want to go play Scrabble? I’m in the mood for a bit of ass-kicking.” Jae suggested lightly.

Clary rolled her eyes, “If by ass-kicking you mean getting your ass-kicked, then a game of Scrabble would be perfect. Prepare to be beaten.”

Though, Clary admitted to herself, she had given something of herself to Jace. She just wasn’t ready to know what it was.

********************

Alec didn’t avoid things, not at all. Alec believed in honest confrontation and intervention, in a reasonable and assertive manner. He didn’t avoid family meetings, assignment deadlines, or even blood tests. And Alec certainly didn’t avoid green-golden eyed lanky boys, with glitter coated skin and an impressive range of eyebrow expressions. 

So the reason he was hiding in a cleaning supplies closet until the end of his shift was not for reasons of avoidance, but for reasons of uh… something. Maybe… checking inventory. Yes, that was it. 

Alec turned determinedly to scan the tumble of mops and brooms leaning haphazardly in the corner. There were two brooms, and one old looking mop. Great.

Alright, so maybe Alec did tend to avoid things. Like admitting the two-year long crush he had once nurtured for the strange blonde haired boy that Izzy took pity on. Or the ever lingering elephant in the room whenever his mother asked him about any nice girls he might like to bring home for dinner. Or when his father had gruffly given him a talk about not accidently impregnating any partner he had, and Alec had reassured his father that there was totally and absolutely no chance of that happening.

“You know if the closet is this spacious, I can sort of understand why one might be reluctant to leave it.”

Alec jumped a foot in the air at the voice, sending the mop and brooms tumbling over in a cacophony of sound. Jace was leaning against the door frame, a half-eaten apple in his hand. It always stumped Alec how conscious Jace was about health for someone who—until a few months ago—had kept up a steady heroin habit. 

“Wow, a closet joke. That’s new.” Alec drawled in an unamused voice. Though he still felt a jolt of ‘more than friends’ affection when laying eyes on Jace, he figured it was more of a knee-jerk reaction from the ghost of his old feelings. 

“Or maybe you’re hiding in a closet for other reasons.” Jace suggested, raising a knowing eyebrow.

“I’m not hiding. Just…” Alec attempted to defend himself, yet trailed off.

“You’re avoiding him.”

Alec scowled, “How do you know there’s a ‘him’?”

Jace scoffed, “It’s a well-known fact that I’m quite absorbed in my own love tangles between me, myself and I—I’m not entirely blind. And if your goo-goo eyes at Magnus weren’t enough of a giveaway, then the fact that he’s started waking up before midday just to lay eyes on you sure as hell is.”

Though Alec had been suspicious of Magnus’ change in sleeping pattern, hearing it confirmed out loud brought two pink spots to Alec’s cheeks.

“That’s ridiculous.” Alec said meekly.

Jace rolled his eyes, “Just don’t do that ‘Alec’ thing where you let your bad self-confidence make the decision for you. I know it’s hard to feel good about yourself when I’m around, but if you want Magnus, then go get him. I have a feeling that he’s not much of a chaser. He’s much too dignified.”

Alec frowned at the golden-haired boy. Though Jace tended to act self-absorbed, Alec knew that the boy had an astute eye for character, and could read a social situation five times more perceptively than anyone Alec had ever met. So Alec knew there was no point lying to him.

“It’ll never work between us.” Alec said with a sigh, “He’s a patient, I’m a nurse. It’s not realistic, and we should quit while we’re ahead. He’s way out of my league anyway.”

Jace scoffed, “You’re doing the Alec thing.”

“There’s no Alec thing, you just made that up.” Alec snapped waspishly. 

Jace stood with a sigh, “Stop being a pussy.” Then he turned and walked away, leaving Alec alone in the closet once more.

********************

_Jace was at the punching bag once more, flinging perfectly aimed blows at an almost inhuman speed. Clary was still utterly entranced with the gracefulness of his movements, and how effortless he made it all seem. Yet an acrid smell suddenly filled Clary’s nostrils, before black smoke began to cloud the room. Clary dropped to her hands and knees in panic, trying to scream through the hacking coughs that rocked her, as her body attempted dispel the toxic smoke that was rapidly filling her lungs with each panicked breath. She could barely see three feet in front of her, yet she knew from the sudden and harsh heat that the fire was slowly filling the room, hungrily licking the walls as it searched for her._

_“Jonathon please!” she cried, trying to pull her unresponding body away from the scorching heat. But it was coming from all directions, and Clary knew it had surrounded her entirely. She wasn’t going to make it out._

_“Jonathon, please stop this! Put it out!” Clary wasn’t sure how she knew, but she was certain that her brother had started the fire. It was just like the last one; he was punishing her for—_

“Clary! It’s not real, it’s ok.” A voice pulled her jarringly from the depths of the dream, and she blinked groggily. Two arms were wrapped tightly around her, half lifting her from the pillow.  
“It’s ok, just breathe. It was a nightmare. You’re ok.” The voice whispered, and Clary realized she was wrapped in Jace’s arms. Though she was still half asleep, the contact made her stomach clench. Yet she wasn’t sure whether it was in shock from the alien contact, or approval from the Jace contact.  
“I—” she stammered, head still spinning from her sudden waking. Clary noted dimly that Jace was in her room, and moonlight was streaming in through the thin curtains. He still hadn’t let her go.  
“I was just getting back from training, and I heard you calling for me. But I didn’t know that you knew my birth-name.” He whispered into her cheek, and Clary bit her lip as she picked up on unmistakable pride in his voice.  
“Your birth-name?” she managed, and he nodded.  
“You know, Jonathon.” He murmured, rocking her slightly as though she were a child, “You were calling for me, right?” he tacked on the end, a quaver of doubt catching the last syllable.  
Clary’s felt her mouth dry in fear, and she let out an involuntary shudder. This only made him clutch her tighter. His name was Jonathon. Jace’s birth name was Jonathon.  
“I was calling for you, yes.” She rasped, trying to ignore the thudding of her own pulse in her ears.  
“Well I’m here. You’re ok.” His voice was soft again, as though she was a bird with a broken wing. His tone made her feel vulnerable, and it triggered a twinge of annoyance in Clary. She sat up, breaking free of his grip.  
“I want you to teach me to fight.” She said quickly, the words pouring from a place that she didn’t know existed.  
A silence descended between the two, and Clary knew Jace was at a loss for words.  
“I’m sick of being helpless.” She went on, the words leaving her involuntarily, “I hate it. In my dreams, I always sit there, and I know he’s coming but I can’t do anything about it. I can’t live like this anymore. I can’t just wait for him to—”  
Clary had tried to keep the emotion out of her voice, but it broke. Clary knew she couldn’t continue.  
Clary knew she’d just created a million questions in Jace’s mind. She could almost hear it clicking and whirring away, trying to decode her. Yet—showing a self-control that Clary wouldn’t have achieved in a hundred years—he simply nodded, his spritely eyes sparkling dimly in the silver radiance of the moon.  
“Alright. I’ll teach you to fight.”


	8. Chapter 8

For the first time in a long time, Clary woke with an unfamiliar sense of purpose. She showered efficiently—ignoring the ice cold water—ate breakfast hurriedly. Jace sipped his coffee silently, before giving Clary a quick nod. Last night he'd told her that her training would start tomorrow, and she should wear something that allowed movement. Clary had planned the outfit the minute she woke up. Just a loose t-shirt and sweatpants, nothing fancy.

But as Alec was taking the breakfast tray from the room, he turned. Clary felt Magnus stiffen beside her, but she barely had time to consider it before Alec's eyes landed on her.

"Doctor Starkweather has an emergency meeting later, so he has to see you now Clary."

Clary felt a rush of frustration at Hodge, for postponing the only thing she'd looked forward to in years. Yet she stood all the same, and headed to Hodge's room. Jace gave a shrug in the corner of her eye.

*****

"Clary, take a seat. I'm sorry about having to reschedule like this."

Hodge was reasonable as always, either not seeing or ignoring the scowl Clary shot at him.

Perching on the edge of the sofa, she watched Hodge bustle about, before producing his trusty notebook.

"How are you today Clary?"

Clary shrugged, "Well I'm still here, aren't I?"

Hodge's face was entirely expressionless. Clary couldn't help imagining what a terrible audience member Hodge would be at a stand-up comedy gig.

"Today I was hoping we could discuss coping mechanisms. Because often when people self-harm, it's a form of coping. Like say, some people will smoke a cigarette when they're stressed out, or drink an alcoholic beverage."

An image came unbidden to Clary's mind. It was Hodge at a nightclub, leaning over the bar and requesting an 'alcoholic beverage'. She stifled a giggle. Hodge didn't seem to notice.

"Often a good form of venting or coping with unsettling events, is to share our worries with others. Do you have anyone in your life you feel comfortable enough to divulge your concerns with?"

Clary chewed her lip. There were a few things in Clary's life that she swore she'd never 'divulge' to anyone—only she should have to bear what had happened to her. It wasn't fair to inflict it upon anyone else.

"I talk to my mother about some things." She began, and Hodge's pen scratched away at the notebook, "And I'll talk to Luke about stuff—things I think Mom would freak out about. And there's Simon too."

Hodge was still writing, "Is Simon your boyfriend?"

Clary scoffed, "God no. He's my best friend. Nothing romantic at all."

Hodge 'hmmphed', "Do you have a boyfriend?"

Clary immediately wanted to reply, 'are you asking me out Hodge?' but then realized that would be a weird joke that Hodge—of all people—was unlikely to appreciate.

"I used to. Kind of."

Clary didn't know about telling people about Sebastian. It wasn't strictly in the 'do not discuss' zone, but a few details of their relationship were ones she'd take to the grave.

"Kind of?" Hodge probed, and Clary sighed. She'd give him pieces, just to stop him insistently digging away.

"Sebastian Verlac was a boy at my school—the year above me." Clary didn't know why she'd told Hodge Seb's entire name, but she'd always liked the sound of his full name. "We met at after-school art lessons. He said he'd joined it because he was too shy to talk to me at school. That was probably a good thing because he's terrible at art." Clary realized that Hodge was the first person she'd told this story to. Yet it felt strangely easy,

"He's the mayor's son, so it was pretty weird that he wasn't attending some super rich elitist school. But he wasn't snobby at all, so I guess his mayor mum is pretty grounded. But we went out tenpin bowling, and it was amazing. He's quirky but interesting, and his parents have taken him travelling loads, so he's really cultured. But he still listened to what I had to say like it was the most important thing he'd heard in his life—even if I was talking about manga or different types of paint, or even my favourite breakfast cereal. He gave me a hundred percent of his attention. We went out on a few more dates, and people at school began to find out about us. But Seb seemed pretty proud of it all, like I was the catch. It was great."

Hodge paused for a few minutes, "But you're not still with him?"

Though Clary knew it was an innocent enough question—and she didn't blame Hodge—she still felt all her internal organs sink a few inches at his words. She'd been so caught up in reliving the elation of her good memories, that she'd forgotten how the story ended.

"No." Clary replied, and her voice was almost inaudible, "I don't want to talk about this anymore."

"Why's that Clary? Did something happen?"

Clary felt herself stiffen, and her eyes locked with a steely glare at a space over Hodge's head. She couldn't meet his eye.

"It ended. That was it. I don't want to talk about this anymore."

Hodge nodded, "I understand Clary. I'm never going to force you to talk about something that makes you uncomfortable. Yet I also want you to feel comfortable enough within these sessions to discuss subjects which are usually difficult for you. Sometimes facing up to them can help you work through them."

Clary shook her head, "Not all things Hodge."

*****

The session had died somewhat after that, and Hodge had let Clary out to train. She bustled around her bedroom, throwing on the training gear and filling a bottle of water.

By the time she made her way to the gym Jace was all set up, throwing strikes at the bag.

"Hi." Clary said awkwardly, indicating her presence.

Jace turned, his face lighting at the sight of her. Something happened to Clary's insides, and she clutched her water bottle for support—the plastic making an obvious crunching sound.

Clary felt heightened awareness of her body as nervous jitters affected it. It was something in the anticipation, Clary supposed, that set her on edge. Training with Jace so intimately like this, with him helping in her recovery process, made Clary feel strangely vulnerable. It was almost as though she'd lain out her secrets for him to see.

"Do you know much about Aikido?" Jace began, and Clary watched as his face set itself in 'tutoring' mode.

Clary shook her head, "It's a martial art?"

"It's Japanese in origin, and it's mainly defensive. That's why I tend to incorporate offensive moves in my training—kick boxing et cetera. I've bastardised it in a way, to suit my needs. But the core value is the same. I've kept the philosophy."

At Clary's puzzled look, Jace's face cracked into a small smile.

"Yes, I'm pretty and philosophical. Brains and looks are a package deal with me unfortunately." But then his face seemed to set like concrete, "The main philosophy I try stay true to is one of… coping. Life throws us into situations—throws challenges at us. We have to absorb these, take the energy, and turn it into something that we can deal with. You can't deflect it as such, only absorb it in the least harmful way possible. Attack me."

Clary felt herself stiffen at his last words, "I'm not going to—"

"Why?" Jace interrupted.

Clary gave him an incredulous look, "I might hurt you."

Jace scoffed, "I've met seven-year olds bigger than you."

Clary found it surprisingly easy to attack him after that comment. She flew at him, using her small size and speed to her advantage as she often tried to. But Clary had barely lifted a freckled arm before she was on her stomach on the floor. Jace had her pinned down with his body, her attacking arm twisted firmly behind her back.

The speed of his movements had sent the air from her lungs with a whoosh, but she was struggling to get her breath back for entirely unrelated reasons. In this position she could feel almost every inch of him pressed against her back, and it was as though a master of torture had magnified every fibre of his t-shirt, every sinew of quivering muscle. Clary felt as though each of these tiny details were writing a braille message with specific password that hot-wired every cell of her body.

She bit down on her lip, attempting to suppress a quiver. But he felt it all the same, and leapt off her in one smooth movement.

She turned, awkwardly smoothing the cotton of her tee shirt. Clary was very pleased to see that a pink stain had taken residence on each of Jace's cheeks, obvious against all his gold-ness. At least she wasn't the only one being affected.

"I didn't hurt you?" he asked, after a few moments of deafening silence. He was anxiously looking at her right wrist, which slightly pink from his grip. Yet Clary had barely noticed it.

"It's fine." She said absent-mindedly, "You know you don't need to go easy on me."

He let out a low chuckle, "You're a lot faster than you look."

Clary bit back a smile of satisfaction, turning for her water bottle. She hated to admit that it wasn't the exercise that was getting her all sweaty.

"I think we should do some stretches." Jace suggested. "I forgot you haven't warmed up."

Clary nodded, imitating the position that Jace assumed—a good distance apart from each other.

But as Clary's mind left the main wave of serotonin and dopamine she'd received at Jace's touch, a question began to arise in her mind. It was strange, she hadn't reacted negatively to Jace's skin on skin contact. Usually when Clary had physical—or sexual—contact with a boy, she was barraged with a flood of graphic flashbacks would overwhelm her. It made Clary feel dirty, being forced to remember every section of her skin that Jonathon had made contact with—polluting every cubic centimetre he'd touched. By that point a wave of nausea would assault Clary—generally killing the mood and preventing anything else happening. Yet it had been strangely absent during those few seconds with Jace, and Clary didn't know how she felt about it yet. It had been such a vulnerable position too—pinned to the floor. And Jace wasn't an exception—their contact during the pool incident had incited the same feeling of nausea and unwelcome flashbacks. But in essence, her and Jace's touching this time around was for entirely different reasons. He was educating her, not coming onto her. Something in that made her feel safer, because she knew the situation was predictable, and therefore in her control.

Clary took a breath, changing position as Jace did. She was envious, Jace made it look so effortless. Whereas at least five of Clary's muscle groups were protesting at once, and she could feel droplets of sweat breaking out on her hairline. For the first time she actually regretted skipping the running laps in gym class, as she was finally realizing how embarrassingly unfit she was. Clary liked to pretend it was Simon's fault—he'd always had an aversion to running unless it was "running away from something", in his exact words. So Clary, being the best best friend she was, would skip gym class with him, hiding away behind the equipment shed. Clary had always preferred to sit and draw, and Simon would chatter away as though Clary was his personal sounding board.

"How was Hodge today?" Jace asked, twisting himself into some kind of yoga pretzel knot. His steady voice didn't betray a breath of exertion.

"Good." Clary replied shortly, trying hard not to pant as she tried to imitate his stretching position.

"Did you have a breakthrough?" he asked, a sardonic twinkle in his eye, the only indicator of mischief on his otherwise calm face.

Clary bit her lip to fend off a smile, "Yeah, turns out all my issues stem from that one time I lost my Mum in Ikea."

Jace nodded solemnly, "That would be traumatising. All those overpriced furniture kit-sets that are impossible to build."

Clary giggled, "Even looking at them gives me an immediate sense of defeat and spousal disharmony."

Jace laughed—a clear, musical sound—and Clary felt as light as a feather.

"You should feel all relaxed and ready to go now." Jace told her, straightening, and Clary felt like telling him how true he was—in more ways than he realized.

Jace started by teaching Clary how to punch—a basic technique lesson. He'd been painfully gentle as he'd taken her right hand in his, neatly tucking her fingers into the correct fist position. His touch was feather-light, tracing paths—no, highways—over her palm, wrist and fingertips. Then he'd taught her position and technique, angling her arm correctly and adjusting her stance. She'd punched the bag as he'd appraised her silently, occasionally adjusting her. He was definitely a kinetic teacher—preferring to correct her physically rather than barking an order. Clary knew this was just his teaching style, yet she secretly wanted to believe that he was deliberately inciting this physical contact between them. For the first time—perhaps in ever—Clary found herself craving this contact, feeling strangely let down when Jace stepped away.

After he was satisfied, commending her warmly, they practiced some of the basic defensive moves of Aikido. Jace told her that another important philosophy in Aikido is the well-being of the attacker during the defensive move. He taught Clary how to land and roll correctly as not to hurt herself, and a slap on the gym mat meant Jace would release her from a hold immediately. This, again, made Clary feel secure, knowing she had an equal part of power in the physical situation.

Jace got Clary to attack him in different ways—stabbing, bottling, general forms of attack—and the hold she would instigate to disarm her opponent. They practiced these before half an hour before breaking away mutually, both panting and covered in a sheen of sweat. But it wasn't just the exercise—Clary felt as though the sexual tension in the room had formed a death grip around her. Her ribs felt squeezed, her breaths coming in short gasps.

Jace's eyes glittered, and he wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand, "Do you see what I was talking about earlier? It's all about changing the force into something that is no longer aimed at me. I took the energy and power you were using to attack me, and I absorbed some of it, using it to change your direction of attack. Like the roll move. You charged at me, and I used your energy to flip you past me, putting us both out of harms way. I didn't oppose, I simply misdirected."

Clary nodded, "I could see that, yeah."

Jace nodded, reaching for his water bottle, "I think we're done for today. Tomorrow?"

Clary tried to come off as 'cool', but she nodded fervently, "Yes, absolutely."

His face cracked into a broad grin, "Great!"

*****

They exchanged witty remarks on the walk up to the ward, engaged in an unspoken competition to see who could make the other laugh the most.

Clary's eyes were nearly streaming with laughter as Jace produced his key card, letting them back into their ward.

But Clary's elation only grew as she spotted a familiar figure lurking at the nurse's office, still rugged up in his winter coat.

"Simon!" she cried, running forward to hug the boy.

He accepted her affection gratefully, with nothing more than a quiet 'oof' as her body slammed into his.

"I thought you weren't coming until this afternoon?" she queried, releasing him from her unrelenting grip.

"I thought I'd surprise you. I miss you real bad Clary."

She pulled him into another firm hug, "It's only been a few days, nerd." She teased.

"A few days too long, geek." He replied, using their affectionate names.

"Jace, this is Si—" she began, turning to the golden-haired boy.

But he wasn't there, the air slightly unsettled where he'd been standing.

"Finally hallucinating, Clary?" Simon teased, prodding her playfully in the ribs.

Clary frowned, "Jace was here a second ago, I swear…"

"Ohh," Simon said, in sudden realization, "Is he the broody blonde one? Yeah, he slipped off a second ago. Unless we've accidently ingested the same hallucinogenic. Oh God, do you think it's in the air vents?"

Clary gave him an eye roll, "You forgot your tinfoil hat, wacko."

Simon winked, "Don't worry, the only thing the government will find in my head are Dungeons and Dragons strategies, and fantasies of the girl's gym showers after cheerleading practice."

Clary scoffed, "First, you're disgusting. Second, what about all that music you've illegally downloaded?"

Simon pulled a face of mock-horror, "Oh shit. Guantanamo for sure."

"I told you not to fuck with Beyoncé. She knows Simon, she knows." Clary teased, before a silence fell between them. It wasn't uncomfortable—it never was with Simon—but they seemed to fall into contemplation at the same time.

"Where's Mum and Luke?" Clary asked, grabbing Simon's hand, pulling him for the rec room.

Simon's hand stiffened in hers, and the boy didn't speak until they'd taken a sofa in the empty room. It was still filled with sunlight, even on such a crisp winter's day.

"It's his final trial today Clary. Jonathon's." Simon explained, his voice just above a whisper. "I'm sorry, I thought you would've remembered."

Clary tensed, as elation left her body with a violent swooping sensation. She said nothing—speaking being the last thing Clary felt capable of. Here she was, in her little bubble, able more than ever to quash the memories and experiences of the outside world. In here she didn't have to be Clary-with-a-history, or fucked-up-Clary. She could simply be a name and a face, a slate wiped clean of all negative experiences and emotions. Nobody here knew the extent of it all.

"I'm sorry I have to ask this Clary…" Simon spoke after a few minutes, and he seemed to be struggling with his words. It was unusual—their conversations were always so effortless, "Jocelyn, and the prosecutor, they wanted me to ask again… Clary, are you sure you won't testify? You were the only other witness that saw Jonathon start the fire, probably the only one who knows to some extent the depths of his depravity… We could get him in prison, Clary. He could be gone, and you'd never have to lay eyes on him again. You'd just have to answer the questions they asked. He'd get charged with arson, and hopefully the sentence would be a few years at least—"

Simon rambled on nervously, and his anxiety seemed to help Clary find her voice, "No. My answer has not changed, Si. I can't do it. I can't be in the same room as him."

She could feel the frustration in Simon, and she could tell that he was nervously biting the inside of his cheek, "Look, Clary. I know what he did was fucked up—but it wasn't like he hurt anybody. Nobody even got so much as a burn from that fire, so it's not like he killed anyone… Would it really be that bad? You wouldn't have to talk to him, or even look at him. Remember how close you two were? Those two years before the fire? Just remember that, and it won't be so hard to be in the same room as him—"

Clary stood suddenly. This whole conversation was making her feel as though her insides were on a fast spin inside a washing machine. Why did it sound as though Simon was defending Jonathon? She knew what he was thinking—why would Clary react so intensely towards her brother, the boy who she'd lived under a roof with, the boy who'd 'cared' for her so deeply? She didn't expect him to understand. For one, he only knew one, heavily-edited section of the story that Clary had shared with him—nothing on the truth. Secondly, he and his sister had a close sibling bond, in the way that sibling bonds were supposed to be.

She took a breath before speaking, barely able to meet Simon's eyes, "It's nearly lunchtime, you should go." Her voice sounded dead even to her.

"Clary—" he began desperately, standing too.

But Clary simply pulled the boy into a good-bye hug, which he instinctually reciprocated, "I'm sorry I won't let you understand Simon." She whispered to him.

Simon Lewis, the ever-enduring best friend. Clary knew she couldn't ask for a better person to grace her life with his presence.

"It's ok." He replied, before pulling out of the hug.

She walked him to the door in silence, but they shared a final hug before he exited the ward. Clary went for lunch, picking in a lacklustre fashion at her turkey sandwich. Jace was absent, only contributing to the sinking feeling in her stomach. Why was everything so fucking complicated?


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major trigger warnings for this chapter, in regards to previous abuse. Don't want to spoil, but just a heads up!

It was Maia's turn with the TV remote that evening. Clary was the last to arrive—she found the rest of the team sprawled out on the haphazardly organised sofas and armchairs. It obviously wasn't the full crew, not without Isabelle. It was only now that Clary realized how small their numbers were, not helped by Isabelle's gaping absence.

Jace was lounging on a couch, his gaze set stubbornly on the television. Ignoring the protests of her fear of rejection, she headed for Jace's couch. Though for all her confidence she still sat a few inches away from him, not allowing for any physical contact.

Jace seemed to pretend as though Clary wasn't there, still staring intently at Maia's episode of the Walking Dead. But then—in a move Clary would've cringed at if she hadn't been on the receiving end—Jace stretched, giving a fake yawn as he oh so subtly slipped an arm over her shoulder.

Clary felt herself clamp up at the touch—but also as she awaited the inevitable flashbacks that came from romantic contact.

Don't go there, Clary, she muttered mentally, just breathe. He's a boy, and a boy that you like. YOU are the one in control. Breathe.

Clary took a few deep breaths, concentrating on the filling of air entering and leaving her body. The gentle rise and fall of her abdomen, and how the air whistled through her nose on the exhale.

"That's a clichéd move. The 'stretch and arm around the shoulder' one." She commented after a few moments, and Jace gave a low chuckle.

"An oldie, but a goodie. One hundred percent success rate."

Instigate Clary! Don't just sit there like a dead fish, she scolded, you're in control!

She shuffled a few inches closer so their sides were touching. She could feel the warmth of his leg through his jeans, radiating off his gold skin like he was the sun.

"So you pull that move on lots of other girls?" she said lightly, concentrating on her breathing once more.

Jace shuffled a little, pressing their bodies even more tightly together. Clary's heart thundered away at a dangerous pace, setting the tempo for the perilous dance they seemed to be doing.

"Of course. Psych ward and chill. Gets all the ladies."

Clary laughed, and found herself leaning into him. It seemed like all the background noise—even the groaning zombies on TV—had dulled to an ambient buzz, yet Clary could hear Jace's steady breaths more sharply than ever. He looked down at her through his lashes, his lips parting a little—which had unmentionable effects on Clary's heart rate, breathing and other vital signs.

Were they going to kiss? Was this it? Clary's mind was buzzing with questions, but her body seemed to know, leaning her face to his.

Christ, she wanted it badly too. It seemed only now she truly appreciating how hard she wanted to kiss this gold tinted boy, the boy who was composed of all sharp edges and clean lines, yet held a soft vulnerability. He was like spun glass, painfully beautiful, dangerously delicate, yet razor sharp and hurtful when shattered. Their mouths were mere inches apart now, and Clary could feel his steady breaths tickling her face—

"Cute."

They sprung apart forcefully, jolting back to the room around them.

Magnus was watching them with a shameless smirk, twirling a lock of glittery hair in his finger.

"Oh, don't mind us." Magnus said with a shrug, "Go back to it. I've always thought our little group was only a few scraps of clothing away from an orgy. All the pent up teen sex drive I suppose."

Jace scoffed, seemingly not the slightest bit embarrassed at being caught out, "I know how keen you probably are to see me naked Magnus—I don't blame you I suppose—but it's not happening."

Magnus rolled his eyes, "Though my sexuality is… fluid, you really aren't my type, Wayland. I much prefer brunettes."

"Jace."

An urgent tone sounded from the doorway, and Magnus turned towards the speaker. The mischievous glint in his eye only seemed to sparkle all the more intensely.

"Ah," he murmured, "speak of the devil."

Alec was in the doorway, staring fiercely at Jace. His expression was brimming with more intensity than usual, yet it was paired with… pity?

"You need to come outside Jace. I've tried not to let him up but… he wants to see you Jace. I'm really sorry."

*****

Jace knew who Alec was talking about immediately. His realization was immediately followed by what felt like a sucker punch to the gut, a blow he couldn't deflect, for all his training.

"Alec…" Jace began, pleading with his best friend. Jace didn't plead, not ever, and Alec's expression darkened at the sound of Jace's voice.

"I'll come with you Jace, I swear." Alec was firm, offering Jace the slightest amount of reassurance.

Jace was vaguely aware of Clary clutching his arm—he dimly noted that she seemed to be instigating physical contact with him for once. No doubt she could feel the fretful nausea coming off Jace in waves.

"He's a dead man." Jace said in a deadly whisper, ever so carefully removing his arm from Clary's. He wished he could explain to her, even give her a look of comfort. But he had tunnel vision—all of his mind and senses were focused on the man waiting downstairs, or where ever else Alec had put him. He was finally here, and Jace was ready to destroy him.

Jace stood, storming for the entrance. Alec only seemed more panicked by Jace's eagerness to see his adoptive father, struggling to keep up with Jace's long strides as they left the safety of the ward.

"Jace…" he said in an anxious tone, between gnawing each of his fingernails, "Jace, you shouldn't see him like this. This is a bad idea. Jace…"

Jace shrugged falsely, the anger inside him consuming any shred of logical thinking. He felt his face twist into a dark smirk, "What do you mean Alec? It's going to be a great reunion. 'Hey Pops, how's it going? Does your butthole still hurt from prison? Oh, and hey, thanks for ruining my fucking life.'"

A growl erupted from Jace, and his fists seemed to curl of their own accord.

"Jace… seriously. Think this through." Alec had nearly bitten his fingernails to the bone as they thundered down the stairs.

Jace shook his head amusedly as Izzy rose to his mind—now of all times. She'd always sworn that Jace and Alec were two halves of the same brain. But where Jace was the right-brain—emotional, impulsive, creative—Alec was the left. Izzy could read a person like a billboard, and Jace appreciated her talents of intuitiveness more and more each day. Alec was undeniably the left brain—logical, puzzle orientated and cautious.

But Izzy soon slipped from his mind as he spotted the figure pacing in the foyer.

Prison had aged him—his face was grizzly and heavily wrinkled, as though someone had carved out crude lines like the beginnings of a clay model. But the wrinkles and bags weren't from age—no, they were the effect of years of heavy drug use and self-imposed physical neglect.

The man turned to Jace, lifting his arms in a gesture of welcome. The affection was clear on his face—it was undeniable—yet there was a flicker of fear too, as though he was a puppy that Jace had kicked.

"Jonathan, my son. You've grown my boy!" his voice was raspy, a little slow and slurred.

It sent an unparalleled chill through Jace's body, freezing him entirely in his tracks. It simultaneously seemed to douse yet feed the simmering fire in Jace's belly. This man had made Jace's birthday cakes, sat through parent-teacher interviews. It was the voice that had woken him for school, and read bedtime stories—'alright, one more, but that's it'—until Jace had fallen asleep.

Jace's fists unclenched, then clenched once more. His will was pulling at itself—the urge to embrace the man was almost as strong as the urge to beat him into a bleeding, whimpering pulp.

Jace took a breath, unable to move.

"I go by Jace now." He replied calmly. Michael Wayland's face seemed to relax a little, sensing that he wasn't going to be beaten up just yet.

"It's short and snazzy." He responded cautiously, gently brushing snow from his winter coat. "I like it."

An apprehensive silence fell over the room once more—Jace could hear Alec and the receptionist's heavy breathing behind him.

"You had two more years Michael." Jace pointed out.

Michael seemed to tense up again, holding his hands up as though Jace was a particularly aggressive breed of dog that was moments away from lunging at him.

"I got out on good behaviour. It was pretty crowded in there." Michael explained, watching Jace's expression carefully. Jace felt like a badly wired pipe bomb—everyone in the room was waiting for him to blow.

"I've missed you." Michael added, "I've come to bust you out son. Time we're reunited again. How long has it been?"

"Nearly five years actually. Yeah, I was fourteen when you left me at the mercy of the streets. No money, no family. They tried me in foster homes, see. But they never really stuck. I suppose it's hard for a fourteen year old heroin addict to settle in."

There was a collective intake of breath, and Michael Wayland froze like he'd been physically struck. Minutes passed, all Jace could hear was the sound of his own teeth grinding against each other—a indicator of the merciless rage bubbling under the surface.

But Alec noticed—he always did.

"Jace…" he said in a soothing tone.

Michael's eyes darted nervously around the room, and he swallowed fearfully before making eye contact with Jace once more.

"Look, I want to give us another go Jonathan. Please?"

It was undeniable—a part of Jace yearned for the approval of his adoptive father. It was something instinctual within him, to seek protection from the closest thing he'd ever known to a parental figure. Being on your own, looking after yourself, was an exhausting task. Jace had been so lost for so long, and he wanted guidance. Someone to take the reins for once, someone to worry for him. Jace was so tired of it all. Yet with that was disgust, looking down at the snivelling, pathetic excuse for a human being that stood before him, grovelling. The piece of shit had caused so many problems in Jace's life, things Jace wouldn't have even had to cast a thought to if Michael Wayland had never existed.

"You want money from my inheritance, I suppose?" Jace spat.

Michael flinched again, yet he took a step forward all the same, "Jonathan…" he wheezed, "You know I care for you Jonathan. You're my only son…"

"Cut the bullshit." Jace interrupted acidly.

"Twenty grand." Michael finally admitted, "That's all I need. It's hard getting junk in prison…I owe some money to the wrong kinds of people, Jonathan. Twenty grand, and I'll never come near you again. You'll never even hear my name, it'll be like I never existed. I swear."

Michael took another cautious step, but this time Jace noticed the slight wobble to Michael's movements. The realization felt like a block of concrete in Jace's stomach.

"Are you high?"

Michael froze, "Just a little stop in on the way here… just for old time's sakes Johnny. Remember when we used to? I raised you Johnny boy, I love you, my son. My dearest boy—"

Yet Michael Wayland's sentence was cut short as Jace delivered a spinning kick to his adoptive father's face.

*****

They'd barred Clary from leaving the ward. She'd tried to keep up with Jace and Alec—cursing her short legs as they'd raced ahead of her. The door to the ward had already been firmly closed by the time Clary got there—Aline standing before it with a look of disapproval.

"I'm afraid I can't let you out right now Clary. Jace and Alec have to do what they need to."

"But Jace—!" she'd protested.

"He has Alec. They'll be fine."

Clary had huffed, "You can't entrap a patient here. I'm going to sue. This is physical restraint. I'll bring my lawyer—well I'll get a lawyer first. A really good one, and then I'll bring the might of the justice system down on this place. I'm not kidding."

Aline hadn't replied, simply staring stubbornly at a spot over Clary's shoulder, her jaw set.

"Please Aline. Can you tell me what's going on down there? Who's here to see Jace?" Clary's voice was a plead this time, and Aline almost softened for a second, before tensing up once more.

"That's not for me to share Clary."

Clary, defeated, had taken a seat on the floor, before Aline. Yet she'd barely had to wait five minutes before Jace stormed back into the ward, his white shirt sprayed with a thin mist of blood.

"Jesus!" Clary cried, jumping to her feet, "Jace, please—"

But the boy was storming off for the bedrooms, not pausing to even meet Clary's eye.

*****

She found him pacing in his room, his shaking hands fisted in his hair.

"Jesus fuck—" he cursed, kicking air. The air seemed to be thick with the toxic fumes of his fury, his whole body tensed as though he was close to striking.

"Jace…" she said gently, leaning against the door frame.

The boy stilled a little, his shoulder slumping slightly as he turned to her. It seemed like her voice had soothed him a little, and he gave a sigh of defeat as their eyes met.

"What's going on Jace?" she asked after a few moments.

He sat down onto his bed with a slump, placing his head in his hands. The silence stretched for much longer this time, but Clary didn't let it become uncomfortable. She rode it out, listening carefully to each of Jace's shaky breaths until he spoke,

"It's all so fucked up Clary. All the shit I've done, all the shit I've had done to me. I can't deal with it anymore. I feel like I'm one ice-thin layer from falling through, just getting entirely absorbed in the past and all the mistakes I've made. I wish I could just scour it off—all the shame, regret, all the disgrace. I feel like the things I've seen, and the things I've done have branded me—left a dirty mark that I can't seem to budge no matter how hard I scrub. Jesus Clary, I wish I could be new for you. Fresh out of the packet, mint condition. But I come with all this fucking baggage, and my shame seems to tail me. I can feel it—drawing closer when I'm left alone with my thoughts. Clary—"

He stopped suddenly, drawing a shuddering breath.

Clary took a step forward, as though the sudden and overwhelming urge to protect the boy had embedded hooks in her skin, drawing her to him.

"Jace, you don't—" she began, sitting beside him, pulling him into a firm hug.

But he shook his head, "Tell me a story Clary. Make something up, recite the plot of your favourite movie. Just something. I need to get out of my own head Clary, please."

She stroked his hair, and he relaxed a little, easing his head into her lap.

A plot for a film? She imagined her life laid out on a storyboard, each shot and camera angle bursting with symbolism and meaning. Perfectly made up actors reciting the conversations she'd shared with her mother, Luke, and even Jonathon. Movements, fights, physical interactions, all laboriously choreographed and rehearsed hundreds of times over. Would she cry, if she saw herself on screen? Or would the plot-line of her life make her cringe, or even roll her eyes at the clichédness of it?

She took a deep breath, imagining a prettier, professional version of herself reliving each moment. It was easier that way—detaching herself from her own memories. She watched herself from above, taking in the scene from an objective point of view.

Clary cleared her throat, and then she began,

"It starts with a couple who marry young. She's artistic, inventive, with a kindness and compassion above her years. He's determined, stubborn, with a deeply ingrained set of philosophies that he refuses to adjust. They're both new to New York, immigrants from England, and they find solace from the unfamiliar territory in each other. It isn't long before they have a child—a little boy—who's an exact replica of his father. The father takes a particular interest in raising his son in the way he wishes, creating a smaller, more charismatic version of himself, ingrained with the same set of unyielding morals. It's only through this that the mother begins to see her husband for what he really is, and begins to unravel the sturdy web of lies he's weaved around their dystopian family life, attempting to entrap her. But she bides her times, and one day the man finally realizes that he's lost his wife's love. He heads back to England, taking their son. Naturally the mother is distraught—all though their son was a replica of his father, she'd loved him deeply, as a mother does her child." Clary took a breath to calm herself, running her fingers through Jace's hair, as though she was trying to find comfort in the golden strands.

"Yet only weeks after her husband's departure, she realizes she'd pregnant again. She births a little girl, and vows to raise her daughter in the way she wished she'd been able to raise her son. They live together in New York, and the girl's mother tries to grant the girl a life of freedom that she never would've had under her oppressive father. The girl is naturally curious of her father, and her mother tells the girl little snippets and pieces of how they met, and why she stayed. The girl is curious as to why her mother fell out of love with her father, or even fell in love with him in the first place. Her mother tells her: what she thought was intelligence was cunning, what she thought was devotion was fanaticism. And what she thought was enduring, ingenuity? That was simply his urge to reach an end, by any means necessary.

The more the mother shares with the girl, the less the girl wants to meet her father. So they grow together, a little family unit—which expands as her mother's best friend arrives in New York, desperate to see the girl and her mother after years of separation. The man is nothing like the girl's father, and he fills any need the girl had left for a father figure. So they grow, living a generally content and peaceful life. The mother's artworks are moderately famous, funding their household, and the girl's pseudo-father runs a bookstore, which also supplements the family income. They live like that for almost sixteen years, in their undisturbed version of normality. But then a figure arrives at the door, one that the girl recognizes in an odd sort of way, though she's never laid eyes on him before. Her mother of course—recognizes the boy instantly—it's her son, now seventeen and fully grown. He says he's sick of living under his father's harsh and regimental rule, and he seeks asylum with his mother. Of course the mother takes him in without questions—why would she? She can live out her fantasies of being reunited with her son, making up for fifteen and a half years of distance. She can get to know him."

Clary felt her body tense of its own accord, and she bit the inside of her cheek hard, not stopping til she tasted blood.

"Things go smoothly for the first six months. The brother is charismatic and gentlemanly, and the girls at school fall in love with his British accent. Yet there's something deeply mysterious about him. The girl likes to pretend she can't see through his mask, she wished she could fall for the false caricature of a person that he seems to be playing. Everyone else does, wrapping themselves around his little finger. He brings home girls every weekend, but never settling. The mother doesn't try restrain him, or make comment. She's just grateful she's been given a second opportunity with her oldest child. But on the girl's sixteenth birthday—"

_It's a scene from a movie, watched from above. Cut up scenes, carefully selected soundtrack, choreographed movements._

"He comes into her room, she thinks he's come to wish her a happy birthday—"

_It's not real not real not real not real_

"He does things to her, things she doesn't want to do. He has funny ideas about preserving family lines, the might of Cleopatra and her brother-husbands, the strength of blood and the ever-enduring bond of sibling ties. She asks him to stop, but he doesn't, and he's stronger too, so she can't fight him off, she's so tiny but—"

The lid was open now, the rotting, putrefied flesh of secrets kept contained for too long. The words didn't belong to Clary anymore, the world outside had claimed them now, coaxing them from her. Clary wondered at how she'd kept it all to herself for so long, with the way the secrets had been fighting to reach the surface, scratching at the glass.

"He came twice a week, without fail. If the girl tried to leave, stay out, then he'd come the next night, or when she got home. The girl's mother was angry, seeing the incessant partying as the beginning of a teenage rebellion. Why couldn't the girl be like her brother, her mother asked. Straight-A student, social success story, charming students and parents alike. The girl couldn't tell her mother, she couldn't shatter the picture-perfect life her mother had so carefully created with her two children and replacement husband. The girl tried to tell the school authorities, but her brother undermined her, made them doubt her version of truth. The girl was so close to telling her best friend, too many times. But she didn't want to make anyone relive what she'd been through.

The girl started hurting herself, as an attempt to deal with the weight of her unshared experiences. The brother only mocked her about this too—calling her weak, pathetic, an attention seeker. He said this was the way it was supposed to be. A strong family tie, bonded once more again. Why couldn't she understand that this was natural?

The girl swore she'd leave home, when she could. She'd escape her brother as her mother had escaped her father—by biding time. A boy at school started taking interest in the girl, and the girl couldn't help reciprocate. The boy put the girl on a pedestal, restoring some of the worth that her brother had stripped away. But the brother found out, somehow, and he was overwhelmed by jealousy. He set fire to the boyfriend's house, hoping to burn the family to the ground. But the girl had heard of her brother's jealousy, and she'd followed him that day. She traced his movements to the boyfriend's house, only realizing what he had planned when he approached the house with a cannister full of petrol. The girl knew she could stop him, prevent him from starting the fire. But the girl saw her escape. If he started the fire, he would be taken away. The girl had been biding her time, and she'd finally been gifted an exit. She knew her boyfriend's family were away—at their ski lodge—so she watched as her brother lit the place up.

The girl contacted the police soon after, claiming the house had already been alight when she'd found her brother there. Luck was on her side, as the security cameras on the property—the ones her brother had failed to notice—hadn't been damaged in the fire.

The only missing hole in the story was the brother's motive. The girl simply fabricated a story about his misconstrued feelings of protectiveness, and his strange delusions of the boyfriend's intentions with the girl. The girl kept her secret, and the boy was taken away. The case was high profile, but the girl tried to avoid news of her brother. It had been a year and a half, and she'd finally escaped."

Clary lapsed into silence, her throat dry and aching from the torrent of words that had left her body in an almost exorcising fashion. They weren't pretty words either, their edges jagged and rusted, catching and tearing her oesophagus on the way out. Though she'd tried to dress them up—forming a delicately crafted monologue with Clary's limited grasp of poetry, the essence of rot and filth still lingered in the story.

She was tired, entirely drained, and her hand stilled in Jace's hair. She'd almost forgotten his head in her lap, so caught up in a scripted, sugar-coated version of her life.

A silence spanned that seemed like hours. The boy seemed lost for words.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Clary." He finally whispered, and Clary tensed. She'd been so caught up in the truth, releasing it all in a cathartic wave, she'd forgotten the potential response of the receiving end.

She stilled with bated breath.

"Have you told anyone?" Jace asked, lifting his head to meet Clary's eye.

"You." She replied, tugging at the sleeves of her cardigan.

The boy opened his mouth, then closed it, before opening it again. It looked to Clary as though he was brimming with words, carefully mulling over his options.

"So what's the moral of the story?" he asked finally, looking at Clary with a set jaw.

Clary shrugged, "I'm not sure yet."

Jace sat up, glancing over Clary for a second before pulling her into a tight hug. Clary expected herself to cry, but she didn't seem to feel anything. She was sure there was a swirling hurricane of emotion churning around inside, but that was blanketed by the odd numbness. The only thing that was really peeking through was apprehension—apprehension about Jace's opinion, apprehension around the fact that she'd now handed her truth to someone else, giving them free will to do whatever they wanted with it.

"I hope you don't think…" she started, but then couldn't figure out how to end the sentence. He pulled out of the hug.

"Think what?" Jace probed.

Clary's hands fluttered in her lap, as though they were attempting to take off, "That I'm… used or broken or—"

Jace shook his head furiously, "Never. Never ever. I think you're so brave, Clary. I'm just glad you finally told me your story. Thank you."

She nodded, still filled with a bubbling curiosity to hear his story. But Clary knew he wasn't in the right space—still too raw from whatever had happened downstairs.

"I'm so tired." She said instead, fighting off a spontaneous yawn that had decided to accompany her words.

"Dinner, and then bed?" he asked, placing a reassuring hand on her arm.

"Sounds good."

*****

Jace held her hand under the table at dinner, squeezing it reassuringly once and a while. Then—in an unspoken agreement—they both slept in Clary's bed, their bodies knotted fitfully together.

Clary couldn't ask for anything better. Jace's rhythmically slow breaths, and unfaltering heartbeat lulled her to sleep in a matter of minutes.


	10. Chapter 10

Alec wandered up the hall, doing his wake-up rounds—his standard start of his shift procedure. Maia was deeply asleep, dribble spilling from her open mouth. Alec rapped on the glass firmly, and her face scrunched up angrily, before she lifted a lethargic hand and flipped him off. He chuckled.

Alec passed Izzy's empty room, trying to ignore the swooping feeling in his gut as he appraised the perfectly made and entirely unslept-in bed.

Magnus' room was empty—which was usual these days—and so was Jace's. This wasn't unusual either, no doubt he'd be physically punishing himself in the gym for yesterday's incident with Michael.

Yet what Alec wasn't expecting to find was the blonde boy in Clary's bed—the two intertwined far too intimately. Alec felt as though he shouldn't be watching them, and he tried quickly suppress a familiar ghostly shiver of jealousy, the stubborn remnants of unrequited love towards Jace.

"Do you love him?"

It was him, always lingering—both physically and mentally. The stirrings in Alec this time weren't old, no, it felt like swimming in salt water with a thousand little paper cuts across his skin.

Alec turned towards Magnus, and it was jumping from the frying pan into the fire.

"Of course I love him. He's like a brother to me—"

Magnus shook his head, his face filled with empathy, "You know that's not what I asked."

Alec appraised the gangly boy before him, studying those glittering eyes in all their hidden depths. Though Magnus was Alec's age—six months older, Alec had his birthday memorized from Magnus' file—he seemed to carry an aura of supreme wisdom, as though he'd seen everything there was to be seen, each faucet of humanity no matter how dark or self-serving. Magnus seemed to treat the events around him with a jaded amusement—as though the people that surrounded him were flimsy puppets being jerked about by the invisible strings of their emotions.

"Not anymore." Alec insisted, more to himself than Magnus.

Magnus nodded, "He's unattainable."

"Obviously." Alec stated, nodding towards the glass frame within the door. It seemed as though Jace and Clary had snuggled closer, their breathing almost synchronized.

"Maybe that was part of the appeal. He never reciprocated, and you never had to leave the closet." Magnus suggested, his unusual eyes sparkling knowingly.

Alec huffed, reluctant to admit that was ridiculously right. Was he that predictable? He was probably just another puppet to Magnus, bleating the lines to another overly expectable story-arch.

"I must be so predictable to you." Alec mused out-loud, before blushing at his own cringe-worthy words. Magnus eyes seemed to light up—laughing at Alec without making a noise.

"That isn't true. You actually confuse the hell out of me Alexander."

Alec blushed again. Only his mother called him Alexander, and that was when he was being told off.

"For example, I haven't figured out why you're avoiding me. I do get tested quite regularly—I shouldn't be carrying anything too infectious."

Alec was utterly gobsmacked, he tripped up vocally, stumbling over the excuses and retorts that all charged for his voice-box at the same time. He wished he was eloquent like Jace, for the millionth time. Alec had lost count of all the occasions on which he'd watched Jace charm girls to bed with nothing more than a few well-placed compliments and witty comments, the silver-tongued devil he was. Alec felt as though his tongue was pewter, or perhaps lead, now more than ever—it seemed to be heavy and awkward in his mouth, as though it had been replaced with mouthful of cold stones.

"I don't like to chase, Alexander. I especially don't like to feel as though my feelings aren't at all reciprocated. It has a spectacular way of 'bumming me out', as one might say. Consider the ball officially in your court, but don't expect me to wait around."

There was a silence, but Magnus didn't give Alec a chance to answer. He slinked off—not casting a backward glance. Alec swallowed—feeling rather graphically as the stones in his mouth sunk to the pit of his stomach, and Alec felt as though their weight was attempting to pull him through the floor.

He slouched off to the kitchen to prepare breakfast.

*****

Clary's family and friend were visiting—Jace hung back in the rec room. He didn't particularly want to meet the real-life characters in her beautifully crafted work of non-fiction. It would only bring a dimension of realism to the story that he didn't need to see.

"Jace." Came a voice from the doorway.

Jace turned to find Alec lingering there—waiting patiently for him.

"What, another crisis?" Jace asked sarcastically, "My long lost twin has tracked me down? A child I never knew I had? Or maybe another kind of family drama?"

Alec shook his head calmly, deflecting Jace's snark.

"Come with me."

Jace stood, raising a singular, questioning eyebrow, yet following Alec all the same.

"You'll need an outdoor coat. Maybe a scarf. Actually, gloves too." Alec told him calmly, and they took a detour to Jace's bedroom.

Jace was rarely a victim of envy. He didn't need to be—he had looked in a mirror before. Yet he felt pangs of it every so often. Many times he'd felt it watching Clary hug her nerdy 'friend', but he also felt it occasionally when he observed Alec.

Alec was undoubtedly an anxious person, if the bitten finger nails and other compulsive habits were anything to go by. Yet the boy seemed to carry a sense of unswayable self-assuredness. Each movement he made was calculated and certain, never looking as though he wanted to shrink away. He was the rock solid eye of Jace and Isabelle's fatal storm, something for them to cling to as they hurtled about. Jace had never met someone so sure of his place on the Earth—Alec acted as though each of the atoms that made him had individually earned their right to exist. Even though Alec had his issues—the giant closet, the anxiety, and Jace—he acted as though he wouldn't trade his existence for all the money in the world.

This was what Jace found himself envious of. One too many times Jace had viewed his life as a video game on extra-hard mode, and maybe death was just level two?

Jace tried to shake these thoughts as he collected his winter gear—they were heading outside, no doubt—and followed Alec.

Alec headed out of the ward, but—to Jace's surprise—they headed upstairs, not down.

It wasn't until two more flights of stairs, and an ill-used door, that Jace found himself on the snow-covered roof of the clinic.

There were two sun-chairs laid out, looking strange nestled amongst the crisp snow.

"Wrong time of the year for sunbathing, isn't it?" Jace joked, heading for the chairs.

Alec huffed, "They were the only available chairs in the storage room."

But Jace took a seat anyway, gratefully inhaling the invigorating air. Then Alec produced two bottles of beer, holding one out to Jace.

"You can drink, can't you? The addiction nurse—"

Jace nodded, "Just nothing stronger than this."

Alec relaxed a little, revealing the box of beers he'd stowed under his sun-lounger.

"What's this all about anyway?" Jace asked, cracking the lid of his bottle.

Alec shrugged, opening his, "We've got lots of stuff to talk about."

Jace scoffed, "Practicing for a counselling paper or something?"

Alec shook his head insistently, "No, no way. This isn't work involved. This is just… friend to friend. A bro down."

Jace felt his mouth twist into a smirk, "A bro down?" he asked cynically.

Alec faltered, "You know… isn't that what straight guys do? Guys being dudes? All the 'bro dude' stuff?"

Jace chuckled, "I'm not a frat boy, Alec."

Alec took a deep sip of his beer instead of replying.

"And 'straight'? Speak for yourself. After a few of these—" Jace shook his beer bottle, "I'm anybody's."

Alec just rolled his eyes, but a smile played on his lips.

Jace took a swig of his chilled beer—the alcohol warming his insides.

"How's Izzy?" he asked, and Alec sighed.

"She's… getting there. Same thing as usual. I'm just pissed off that I didn't notice sooner. She should've been in the special unit weeks ago."

There was a silence.

"I should've noticed too." Jace admitted, "She was looking drawn again, getting all obsessive. I was just hoping that if we left her to her own devices she'd magically get better. I just wasn't ready to admit she was getting sicker."

Alec nodded, and Jace knew he was thinking the same. They lapsed into silence once more, and Jace could almost feel the steady pulse of Alec's thoughts. Sometimes Jace was surprised by how well he knew Alec. The two had only met through Izzy, but they'd clicked unnaturally quickly. In the end he and Alec had met up more often than he and Izzy—both craving the ease they found in each other.

"Max?" Jace prompted, eager for news of the outside world.

"He's starting chemo tomorrow." Alec replied, and Jace could read the tension in Alec's voice as though it was a language that he was fluent in.

Jace drained his beer in response, leaning for another from the box between them.

Another comfortable silence fell between them, and he listened to Alec struggle with his next sentence.

"That thing with Michael—"

"Like something off Jerry Springer, I know."

Jace felt Alec hesitate, and Jace busied himself by downing the rest of this beer too, fetching himself another from between them.

"You—I mean—are you okay with it? Well no but—how are you?" Alec stammered.

Jace knew they'd reached what Alec truly wanted to talk about, and he fought back an affectionate smile as Alec stumbled and tripped over the words.

Jace sighed, "It was certainly unexpected. I thought I had another two years to mentally prepare myself, but I guess the universe wasn't up for that. I shouldn't have been surprised really." Jace noted the defeated tone of his voice with surprise, and tried to concentrate on how his breath turned to steam in the cool air, to calm his mind. The warmth of inside —if one could call the drafty manor 'warm'—was beginning to wear off, and Jace could feel the tip of his nose begin to sting with the chill.

"But surely it's a little… satisfying? You don't have to see the asshole again."

Jace fingered the lip of his bottle through his gloves, trying to ignore Alec's studious eyes on him.

"I'd say it's more… frustrating." He confessed reluctantly.

"Why's that?" Alec jumped on Jace's confession, squeezing himself aggressively into Jace's cracks of vulnerability, like he always did.

Jace fidgeted in his chair, barely noticing his own hand scraping through his hair nervously.

"It's frustrating because… well, I've been brewing over Michael for nearly five years. In that time I've been imagining our inevitable reunion time and time again. I had a whole prosecution planned, where I'd tear Michael down, list every single instance where'd he'd wronged me, why he—exclusively—had ruined my life. I planned his trial, in which I'd be the judge, jury and executioner. But as soon as I saw him… I couldn't think. This whole pre-scripted judgement day flew out the window. I only managed to chip away at a tiny fraction of the accumulated things I'd planned to say. So the speech that I've rehearsed a million times, it's still all knotted up inside me. I still want to hold him accountable, but it'll be near impossible now. I know I beat him up pretty badly—he'll avoid me like the plague now. He's probably already skipped town. I'll never get to serve my justice, and that's why it's frustrating."

Jace took a deep breath, trying to ignore Alec's surprised silence. As per usual—and more of late—Jace found his thoughts drifting to Clary. Would her family been gone yet? Would she be looking for him? They had training to do—it was already one o'clock.

"I guess… I can understand that." Alec said cautiously, finally finishing his first beer.

Jace took slower sips of his beer, aware of the slight fuzziness of alcohol that was beginning to envelop him. Jace only knew how enthralling the numbness could be.

"So that was your plan? Get me drunk and I'll talk about my feelings?" Jace joked lightly, but he was still aware of the insolence in his tone.

"You're drunk?" Alec said in disbelief.

"No, I'm just kidding. It's been awhile since I've drunk, but I'm not quite that lightweight."

In his peripheral vision, Jace saw Alec's hand fly to his mouth, chomping on his fingernails.

"Maybe the beer wasn't a good idea…" Alec groaned.

"Relax, Alec." Jace chastised, "Beer is ok. Vodka might be a little more in the red zone. But the only thing that will truly set me off is something with a narcotic base, or good old fashioned heroin. And I don't suppose you've got any of those stashed away under your sun lounger?"

Alec shook his head firmly, looking a little more relaxed. "Sorry. It's just with Izzy relapsing…"

"You're waiting for me to as well?" Jace suggested, and Alec froze up.

"No, not at all! I'm just… worried." Alec finished finally, giving a sigh of defeat.

Jace found his mind going back to Clary, "Yeah, me too."

And—as though his best friend could read his mind—Alec's face lifting into an expression of amusement.

"I saw you and Clary spooning this morning."

If Jace was a gentleman, he would've blushed. But out of the many things Jace was, a gentleman wasn't one of them.

"And you have something to say on the matter?" he quipped in return.

Alec frowned thoughtfully, "You seem… intense around her."

Jace wasn't sure how to respond, instead focusing on taking a measured sip from his beer.

"I'm not sure what to think of her yet. She's got this weird… secrecy about her." Alec continued.

Jace felt himself seize up, "I think it's justified." He answered shortly.

Alec turned to look at him, appraising him silently, "Ok, what is it?"

"What do you mean?"

"You just completely stiffened up. What did I say?" Alec didn't beat around the bush.

Jace's stomach twisted. He was so conflicted over Clary. She'd entrusted him with things she'd never told anyone else—but it was eating him up. God knows how she'd managed to keep it to herself for so long.  
"You couldn't know. Don't worry." Jace said quickly.

Alec shot Jace a 'no, seriously' look. "Come on, what is it?"

Jace stared out across the roof, to the snow coated grounds sprawled out before them. They had quite a view from this height, Jace could almost see the edge of the property, lined with pines.

"Jace?" Alec asked again, fully turned in his sun lounger to look at Jace expectantly.

"Clary shared some things with me." Jace confessed after a few more minutes of silence. "And don't bother asking me what she shared because I can't tell you."

Alec raised an eyebrow, "That's all very cryptic Jace. But whatever she said is obviously bothering you…"

Alec was always respectful of Jace's privacy, but he always had a wonderful way of worming the truth from Jace, "It was… shocking."

Jace's recalled how he'd felt listening to Clary's 'story'. She'd been barely audible over the blood pounding in Jace's ears—he'd felt as though he'd jumped from an aeroplane, hurtling towards the earth in free fall—heart pounding, organs seemingly defying gravity inside him. He'd tried so hard to sound calm when she'd finished, smoothing his expression into one of blank interest.

"Let's just say my protective instincts towards Clary got all tangled." Jace offered lightly, but he didn't realize how badly his hands were shaking until he tried to take a sip of his beer.

There was a silence. Jace knew that Alec wasn't pushing him for more information, but Jace was finding it hard to stop now he'd started.

"Let's just say Clary was involved with a… negative person." Jace knew 'negative' wasn't even a touch on the truth, "This negative person could be brought to justice, which would put Clary out of danger, and thereby satiate my urges to protect Clary. But to bring this negative person to justice, it would mean Clary's secrets would need to come to light. This would mortify Clary, and I would feel as though I'd failed in my duty to protect her. So naturally, I'm all tangled up."

Alec paused, "But what if she doesn't need protecting?"

Jace grimaced, "That would tangle me up even more."

Alec sighed, "You and Izzy have the worst saviour complexes I've ever seen. Between your incessant need to save people, you forget that some people don't need saving. You've got enough on your own plate to handle, don't start taking on other people's problems. You're just distracting from your own."

Jace felt a bubble of anger grow inside him, forming where all the knotted up Clary and Michael feelings already lay.

"So I'm supposed to leave her to it? She's been through things Alec, and I have to—"

"See, there's your problem." Alec interrupted indignantly, "You don't 'have to' do anything. Sounds to me like you're just interested in Clary's problems, not actually her."

Jace stood, the fury blurring his vision, "What's your problem? You bring me up here to talk about my 'feelings' but you start tearing me down for no reason!"

Alec stood too, only half an inch from meeting Jace's eye, "I'm not tearing you down for no reason! You always do this—getting involved in other people's problems! You've barely known Clary for a fortnight, and now you're pulling all this hero saviour bullshit, like you know everything about her! Where's your loyalty to me, and Izzy—"

Jace scoffed, glaring into Alec's blue eyes, "Loyalty? What on earth are you talking about? There's no sides here, I'm just trying to help her out!"

Alec seemed to fall silent, his jaw pulsing. "Whatever." He snapped finally, storming for the door.

"For fuck's sake." Jace cursed under his breath, watching Alec slam the door firmly behind him.

*****

Alec charged down the stairs blindly, blinking away tears of rage. He feebly searched for answers as to why he felt so affected by Clary and Jace's seemingly 'close' relationship, but deep down he knew the reason. He'd just told himself Clary was another of Jace's conquests, but he couldn't lie to himself—he'd seen how he looked at her. Alec had pushed back the growing feelings of jealousy, but Jace's ridiculous comments on the rooftop had brought the green-eyed monster out in all its venom. He'd sworn to himself that he had no feelings for Jace—they were long dead. But Alec's current state of emotional turmoil indicated that he may not be as dead as he'd originally thought.


	11. Chapter 11

Clary struck out cautiously, overly aware of the movements of each muscle group. Jace frowned on, analysing the way in which she kicked the punching bag. He was a good teacher, but he'd started to crack down a little harder, as though he was trying to dig for a hidden treasury of athletic potential within Clary. He'd probably need a professional excavation team for any such discovery, Clary mused, trying to pay attention as Jace outlined the mistakes she was making.

"No, you need to extend that muscle."

Clary liked to pretend she imagined it, but he'd gotten much less hands-on with her since she'd shared her story. He'd sworn he didn't consider her to be damaged goods, but he seemed reluctant to make skin contact with her. It made Clary feel tainted, and she tried to ignore the churning in her stomach as he flinched away from her during their sessions.

"No, the other muscle." Jace insisted as she kicked again.

Clary huffed impatiently, striking the bag again.

Jace sighed, suddenly reaching out to hold her extended leg. Clary wobbled—shocked at the contact and thrown slightly off balance—and she instinctively grabbed for him, catching his thin t-shirt.

Their closeness was heady after Jace's obvious attempts to put distance between them, and Clary felt a shiver of anticipation go through her. But the source of the anticipation was unclear—she felt a certain amount for the boy before her, yet some for the flashbacks that seemed to lay in wait for her, prepped to spring her at her most vulnerable.

But still, Clary's feelings of physical attraction to Jace were entirely palpable, her mind entirely consumed with the thought of grabbing his face roughly, kissing him fiercely. Part of her knew that his mouth would be shamelessly hard, yet ridiculously soft, much like the man himself.

But as Clary felt her eyes drifting—of their own accord—to Jace's mouth, he abruptly released his grip.

Clary had to suppress a groan as she released his shirt, before righting herself. As shame flooded her system, she mentally decided to pretend nothing had happened. She was going to be dignified—

"Why do you keep doing that?" But once more, her mouth didn't receive the memo.

"Correcting your kicking technique?" Jace replied, with a look of feigned ignorance.

Clary felt her face flush the same shade as her hair, but she folded her arms across her chest stubbornly.

"You said you wouldn't treat me like I'm broken." She continued.

"I'm not." He replied instantly, mirroring her stance with much more grace. Clary recalled reading an article in a trashy magazine—probably at a doctor's office—about signs a boy liked you. Apparently mirroring your actions was one of them, and Clary allowed herself this silent victory as she engaged Jace in a stare down.

"You're treating me like I'm in the late stages of syphilis."

A small smile broke Jace's stony expression.

"I'm serious!" Clary insisted, but she felt a giggle rise in her throat.

"I'm sorry." Jace surrendered after a few moments of amused silence, the smile on his face beginning to fade, "I just didn't want to make things physically uncomfortable for you."

Clary felt her stance soften, "Jace. If I ever feel uncomfortable, I'll let you know. Trust me with that?"

Jace nodded, but the tension didn't seem to leave his body.

A fit of impatience seized Clary, and she grabbed both of Jace's hands forcefully, placing them roughly on her—slightly existent—chest. The boy's eyes seemed to bug, Clary noted with some satisfaction.

"Clary…" he began in warning, but he didn't attempt to move his hands.

"Jace, please. Let me set the boundaries. I know myself. But just don't treat me like a broken thing."

Jace—looking a little flustered—opened his mouth to reply, when the door to the gym swung open.

Clary and Jace sprung apart guiltily, turning for entrance.

A nurse—one that Clary wasn't familiar with—gave them a warm smile, before ushering other figures through the door. The others were wearing a type of scrubs, but they were a pale cream as opposed to the green of the nurse's scrubs.

"Jace…" Clary turned to the blonde for an explanation, but to her surprise, he looked relieved.

"I thought it might be someone coming to lock me up for sexually harassing a minor." Jace joked, but then he observed the slightly strained expression on Clary's expression, "Oh, don't worry. They're just other patients in the clinic, probably in a more secure ward than ours. The staff take them here for exercise every few weeks, they don't have the same freedoms as us."

Clary turned back to appraise the other patients, who were slowly filing into the gym. They seemed placid enough, some even nodding in Jace and Clary's directions.

"I think they're a group of the long-term residents. A nice enough bunch," Jace continued, "but often cases nobody managed to intervene before they hurt themselves, or someone else. It could be any of us—all it takes are a few slight chemical mishaps in someone's brain to create a severe mental illness. I bet there's some pretty sad stories there." Jace added, with a hint of sadness in his own tone.

Clary looked up at the boy, studying his model-esque features tugged into an expression of melancholy empathy. But Jace seemed to snap himself out of it, turning to Clary with an entirely unreadable calm on his face,

"Should we head back up?"

Clary nodded, and began to collect her things.

"And for the record," she added waspishly, "It's only eight months until I'm eighteen."

Jace allowed a chuckle.

*****

Maia cruised down her Facebook newsfeed, trying to suppress to flare of jealously she felt as she skimmed past photos of her friends—all smiling broadly into the camera at various parties and functions. Maia knew that she'd been in those photos too, if she was out there in the real world. Maia was popular—or she had been, until she'd tried to throw herself off the top of her apartment building. But now she was here, slowly shrinking off the social radar in this little psych ward, barely a pimple on the ass end of nowhere.

Maia slammed her laptop lid closed a little too forcefully, making Alec across from her lift his head.

"Everything alright?" he asked, resting his pencil on his Sudoku notebook. The light in the rec room was bright as usual, catching Alec's bright blue eyes, making them sparkle prettily. Alec was the kind of boy Maia could trust—not drop dead pretty. He was good-looking in his own way, yet not marble-sculpted, angel faced way that would make Maia shrink in fear. She could trust Alec.

"Just my friends, having the times of their young lives." Maia sighed, tracing patterns across the sleek surface of her laptop.

Alec scratched his chin thoughtfully, closing the notebook on his pencil, as to save his place, Maia supposed, "I tend to think that social media doesn't really paint an accurate picture." He said finally, after a few moments of considered silence, "I think it's more like a highlight reel—everyone is showing all the best bits of their lives. It's not like anyone is going to post photos of themselves lying in bed all day—or cleaning vomit from their hair. You can't judge your lowlights on their highlights."

And with that fairly profound piece of advice, Alec smiled warmly, before turning back to his Sudoku.

"You could write a self help book." Maia going to say, but familiar voices sounded from around the corner. Alec jumped to his feet, streaking from the room like a cat on a hot tin roof. Maia barely had time to be confused before Jace and Clary entered the room, grinning at each other flirtatiously.

Maia was sure she'd never seen Clary so relaxed since the girl had arrived. The usual tension she carried in her shoulders had dissipated, and her face was lit with a genuine smile.

The change was startling—Maia was so used to the closed off, suspiciously quiet girl that often slunk around the corridors of the ward.

But Jace's face slipped into a frown, as he caught Maia's eye, "Was Alec just in here?"

Maia nodded, "He went out the other door."

Jace turned to Clary, "I've just got to talk to Alec. Be back soon, ok?" Then he gave her hand an affection squeeze, before striding determinedly out the other door.

Clary nodded, taking a seat on the armchair closest to Maia, watching the door that Jace had just left through.

"You two seem close." Maia observed, trying to strip her tone of all judgement—yet she still felt her lips purse.

"He's training me in self-defence." Clary explained, the wistful expression leaving her face as she turned to Maia.

Maia mentally scolded herself—insisting that it was none of her business—but the warning came out all the same, "Just be careful."

Clary didn't look angry, simply curious, "What makes you say that?"

Maia truly couldn't help herself, "Pretty boys can be trouble. I learned that from personal experience."

Clary frowned, "Why, what happened?"

Maia felt herself flush, and she found herself stroking patterns over her laptop once more, "I'll keep that to myself, if that's alright."

Clary visibly shrunk, all confidence fleeing her body. Maia silently cursed herself, "Look, no offence intended." She explained, trying to smooth it over, "It's not your fault. It's just kind of… personal. You understand that, right?"

Clary's face turned solemn, "Yeah. I understand. Truly."

*****

Alec raced up the hallway, trying to outrun Jace's insistent footsteps behind him. Curse the stupid boy, and his ridiculous heterosexuality and impertinent need to be right. Alec knew that if he slowed for Jace, the boy would end up talking Alec out his anger. And even though Alec knew he'd been entirely unreasonable with Jace, he wasn't ready to let go of his silly grudge quite yet.

But as Alec rounded another corner, he almost collided with another figure he was keen to avoid.

"I've been looking for you, Alexander." Magnus began, "I wanted to talk to—"

Alec grabbed Magnus by the elbow, steering him rather forcefully for the nearest door, which happened to be—

"Janitor's closets seem to be a running theme with you." Magnus remarked, with a smirk.

Alec huffed, closing the door behind them. He waited with bated breath for Jace's footsteps to pass the door, before pulling Magnus out into the hallway.

"You wanted to talk to me?" Alec prompted, trying to ignore the fluttering in his gut as Magnus' eyes locked with his.

"I wanted to let you know that I'm leaving tomorrow night." Magnus replied, holding Alec's gaze unflinchingly.

Alec's stomach dropped at the words, and he was filled with an emotion that he couldn't quite pinpoint,

"What? Why? You've only got a short amount of time, why not just stay and finish?" Alec noted the whining quality to his voice, and he took a deep breath to quiet it, "I mean, it would look better on your record."

Magnus smiled… sadly? Perhaps Alec was reading it wrong, "I've been offered a manager's position at a new nightclub in town. It's good pay, and there's nothing here for me anymore."

Alec suddenly felt as though someone had wedged a shard of glass between his ribs, "Nothing?" he replied a little breathlessly, trying hard not to let his eyes drop from Magnus'.

"That's up to you Alexander." Magnus replied, his expression ever-unreadable as he suddenly fumbled in the jacket pocket of the glittery coat he was wearing. He produced a small scrap of paper, with a set of numbers in Magnus' flamboyant handwriting decorating it.

"My cellphone number." Magnus explained, and Alec took the scrap from him, slipping it into the top pocket of his scrubs.

"Call me anytime. I'll answer." Magnus added reassuringly, placing a hand on Alec's shoulder. The contact sent a prickle of electricity right down Alec's side, as though Magnus had a special kind of magic in his fingers that only Alec could sense.

"Of course." Alec replied, giving Magnus a firm nod.

Magnus removed his hand, straightening up and tugging the lapels of his coat.

"I have to go pack. But I'll see you and everyone else at dinner this evening." Magnus turned to leave, "Oh, and for God's sake, talk to Jace. I bet whatever you're arguing over is ridiculous."

Alec had nothing to say aside from agreeing, so he shrugged in a defeated way.

Magnus gave him a final smirk, before sauntering up the hallway.

*****

There was only an hour until dinner, but the clinic doctors were always busy. Maia was relieved to finally be buzzed to the infirmary, and she took the stairs two at a time to the first floor. The infirmary was somewhere between a pharmacy and a general practitioners. Many of the patients in the clinic were on some kind of medication, and the clinic had attributed half of the first floor of the manor to organizing this medication, as well as treating any injuries or illnesses that would occur in at Fairchild Clinic. And seeing as they were right in the middle of flu season, the two doctors that worked at the infirmary were relatively rushed. The medical nurse in training—Helen Blackthorn—spied Maia as soon as she entered the small waiting room.

"Maia, over here!" she called, and quickly led Maia down a cramped hallway to a small office. Like most things in the Manor, the infirmary was awkwardly organized around the architecture of the original residence. There was lots of little rooms leading off to other big rooms, and funny little passages that led to nowhere at all.

"Take a seat, Maia." Helen gestured to a squashy chair beside her desk, and Maia eased herself into it carefully.

Helen gave her a warm smile—a professional sort, that all the doctors and nurses seemed to know, before turning for the archaic dinosaur of a computer that was making her desk groan from the weight of it.

Helen made an exasperated sound as the thing wheezed and spluttered to life, its screen flickering weakly before it properly started.

"Is that thing running Windows 95?" Maia asked in surprise, "It could be in a museum. No offence." She added quickly.

Helen just laughed, "I get all the shitty stuff because I'm still in training. It's alright though—I'll graduate next year. Then it's something sleek and super-fast for me."

Helen clicked away for a few minutes, before she seemed to finally bring up the page she wanted.

"Ah, there we go." Then she turned to Maia again, "This is just a general check-up to see how you're feeling on…" she scanned the computer screen, "you're on Atripla?"

Maia chewed her lip, "Yeah, and my anti-depressant, Celexa."

Helen nodded, double-checking on screen.

"You were on… Zoloft, it says here?"

Maia nodded, "But it didn't help with the uh…" Maia felt herself falter, and a blush lit her cheeks, "suicidal thoughts, and stuff."

Helen nodded, "Zoloft can be like that for some people. But the Celexa is good?"

Maia anxiously twirled one of her ringlets around her finger, "It makes me a little drowsy, but it's ok if I take it before bedtime."

Helen's eyes flicked back to the screen, "You've been on Atripla for six months. How's that going?"

Maia chewed the inside her mouth, feeling a flutter of anger warm her chest, "It makes me feel pretty dizzy, and kind of nauseous. But it's either that, or let my HIV kill me, so it's not like I have a choice." Maia's voice was bitterer than she would've liked.

Helen made a sympathetic noise, reaching out and giving Maia's hand a reassuring squeeze.

"It's tough. I know sometimes it feels like you're the only one going through this, but there's many others out there, even people your own age, going through the exact same thing as you. I think we've even got a few people in the clinic who are positive."

Maia nodded firmly, feeling her body freeze up, as it always did when she felt the beginning of tears prickling behind her eyelids.

"It just sucks." She said quietly, "Because I never get a holiday from it. It's always going to have to be on my mind, for the rest of my life. I can't even look at a poster for a blood drive without being reminded. I hate it. And I hate him." She growled, trying hard to blink away the tears. She'd promised herself a hundred times that she'd never cry over him, but she'd broken the promise more than she'd vowed it.

Helen looked at her sadly, giving her hand an even firmer squeeze, "I know. But the best we can do is keep at the Atripla, and hope that we can get your viral load—the amount of virus in your blood—down to undetectable. Just focus on that goal for now."

Maia nodded shortly, clenching her jaw to distract herself from a mind full of him.

"Do you want to do a blood test now?" Helen asked, as she released Maia's hand to type a few notes into the computer.

Maia nodded, "That'd be good."

*****

Helen set Maia up in the next room, prepping the various instruments to take a portion of Maia's blood. Maia tried to look straight ahead, not keen on watching Helen slide the needle into her vein. Maia had never really had many issues with needles or blood tests previously—but that was before she'd been diagnosed as HIV positive. Now Maia felt as though her own blood wasn't hers—like it had been hijacked by an alien bug. Which, Maia supposed, it had. Though it was the normal dark red like everyone else's, only Maia knew the infection that lurked within it, muddying her normal blood. Sometimes, Maia could swear she could feel the little viruses zooming around her bloodstream, slowly growing like a poisonous mould.

Maia inhaled sharply as she felt the needle break the skin, and she stared stubbornly ahead. She often wished there was some way she could send a message to her past self, warning her about him.  
Much like the HIV virus could lay dormant for years, making a harmfully ill person seem healthy, past-Maia had been deceived by appearances. If only Maia had known how something ill was lurking under his pretty surface, that some pretty bottles contained a pretty poison.

He'd tried to contact her often, first on Facebook (she'd blocked him), then other social media (also blocked), then he'd found out about the clinic and tried to turn up there too. The guards they kept on the grounds dumped him on his ass outside the gate. Now he just sent letters, wrapped up expensive envelopes. Yet she hadn't opened a single one. She wasn't sure what he had to say to her—the damage was already done. She was infected, and it was his fault.

"You're all done." Helen informed her, "The results should be back in a few days."

Maia nodded, thanked her, and then headed for dinner.


	12. Chapter 12

Magnus would argue that he knew himself particularly well. He knew where his strengths lay, his weakness, and the best shade of nail polish to bring out the gold in his skin tone. And Magnus knew—for all the magnificent things about himself—he lacked sticking power.

Magnus had always drifted, as though he was allergic to staying in one place for too long. In fact, he moved through many things in life at an accelerated pace. Partners, jobs and even cities. He'd partied in the most elite nightclubs of Beijing, London, Paris, Amsterdam—leaving nothing behind but a grandiose reputation and the lingering scent of Hugo Boss.

Looking back on it, he supposed this was his way of running from himself. Self-medicating his original symptoms off nightclub toilet cisterns and drinks paid for by indulgent lovers for whom he played mistress. He wasn't mentally ill, he was kooky and fun. It was easy to lose himself in unfamiliar streets, finding comfort in the unknown. Being new, being fresh—that was escapism. Rumours couldn't follow him—he was just a name, a drunken conversation and another early AM lover.

Fairchild Clinic was probably one of his longest stints. He'd actually formed attachments with the people around him—one blue-eyed nurse painfully came to mind—and they knew the mundane parts of him. But for all the coming and going in his life, Magnus was terrible at good-byes. He'd spent the last few days debating with himself—did he tell Alec he was leaving? Surely just disappearing, ripping off the band-aid, would be the least painful option for both of them?

But for all his smooth disappearances, it appeared he'd snagged himself on the dark-haired, broody boy. It was his own mistake really, but he couldn't deny there was something deeply intoxicating about the solidity of Alec, his steady self-assuredness. And Magnus—who was more myth than man—was silently addicted to Alec, who wasn't fuzzy around the edges. He was existed fully and completely, and he didn't apologise for it.

Even now, the sound of the meal trolley wheels on the wooden floor made Magnus heart speed a little.

The others around him were oblivious, Maia and Clary chatting animatedly over the table, Jace drumming impatient fingers against its cheap plastic surface.

Magnus had decided not to tell the others of his departure. Normally he'd skip the city immediately, but something—more like someone—was holding him back. But Magnus knew he'd see the others around. It was a small world, after all. And if anyone knew that, it was Magnus.

Alec pulled the dinner trolley into the room, setting down each meal with a concentration it didn't require. Magnus knew the boy was avoiding his eye, which only made it harder for Magnus to look away. Yet, as Alec set Magnus' meal down, Magnus could've sworn Alec's arm skimmed his shoulder deliberately—and it lingered a second too long. Magnus' stomach erupted instantaneously, like someone had unsettled a colony of bats inside it.

But Magnus didn't have the opportunity to gauge Alec's reaction, as the boy was promptly speeding from the room with the trolley, without as much as a backward glance in Magnus' direction.

As though the bats had performed a cheoregraphed nose-dive, Magnus felt his shoulders slump.

*****

Clary was wrapped up against Jace again that night. There was something comforting about his steady heartbeat and even breaths, lulling her into a gentle sleep. He was the temporary antidote to her nightmares, the light he seemed to emit keeping the dark dreams at bay.

As she drifted off, she found herself struggling to pinpoint the exact moment she fell asleep. There was a blankness, but then she was suddenly extremely conscious of Jace's body against hers. The heat in the air between them had become sweltering, sending shivers of fervid intensity across the surface of Clary's skin. The need to close the distance between them was impossible to ignore—Clary knew the heat in her bones could only be cooled by him. As though he felt it too, his hands were suddenly on her, his thumbs slipping under the waistband of her pyjama pants with an insistence that only made her internal temperature rise. His lips danced across her neck, collarbones, down her jawline—blazing a trail that Clary felt to the base of her spine. She called for him, pulling him closer, as though she was trying to fuse them into one. Clary knew it was the only way she could cure the thirst, the almost painful desire—

"Clary? Are you ok?"

Everything sharpened suddenly, as though Clary's whole body had been jolted into focus.

"You were gasping, whimpering in your sleep. You said my name. Were you having a nightmare?"

It was Jace—the real Jace—his voice a concerned mumble in her ear.

"I—" her voice cracked, "I wasn't having a nightmare. I'm fine."

But the dream—the hellishly angelic dream—had only made her aware of every surface of contact her skin shared with Jace. One of his hands was cautiously placed on her waist, the other twisted up in her own, gripping on like a lifeline. Apart from that, there were a modest few inches between them on the bed, Jace playing the perfect gentleman.

"What was the dream about?" he faltered, "I mean, if you want to share."

She could almost make him out in the dark, all golden in the moon's silver glow. The gentle light had softened his sharp edges—he looked like a silver-screen starlet in prime years, immortalized in soft focus. If she drew him now it would be in charcoal on a plain page, smudging all the plains of him. Clary was sure he wasn't real—and she'd wake with nothing but crisp sheets and her wandering hands for company.

"You—we were kissing." She confessed, ignoring the flush that heated her cheeks as she anticipated his reaction.

He stiffened a little, but didn't move away, "We kissed?" his voice broke, "I mean—I kissed you?"

"Dream you did." She teased, lifting her lonely hand, "Right along here," she drew a trail across his jawline, "here" down his neck, and he shivered a little, "and here." She waltzed her fingers across his collarbones, coming to a stop over his rampaging heart. It was reassuring to feel his anxious heartbeat under her hand—knowing he was just as affected as her.

She felt him shuffle a little, and suddenly she could feel his breath on her jawline—

"You mean here?" his kisses were feather-light, and Clary could've sworn she was dreaming again, if it weren't for the breath caught in her throat, "and here?" His lips were on her neck, making her writhe and ache in a way that was far too intimate for anyone else. His mouth was firmly on her collarbone now, his insistence only growing at her gasps. She realized in that moment why girls gave everything to boys in a single night, especially boys who could create such blissful chaos with such a simple weapon as their mouths. Clary tried to not think about all the other things Jace could to do her—

"Clary," he was gasping now, his head resting against her chest—as though he was the one with kisses seared into his skin, "I don't want to push your boundaries. If we keep going, I think—"

"I know." She whispered, barely able to speak for catching her breath.

She turned around, sliding her body against his in a spooning position—they fit as snug as two puzzle pieces.

"I'm sorry if—" Jace began.

A sudden fit of impatience overwhelmed Clary. It was as though something had snapped—and the desire she felt for Jace violently overpowered her pride. She turned in the bed, all but flinging her mouth at his. She was tired of being the damaged goods—angry at the idea of her experiences prevented her from doing what she wanted. Clary wanted to kiss Jace, and she wouldn't let her trauma ruin that experience for her. She wasn't a victim.

It was obvious for a few seconds that Jace was quite taken aback by her sudden display of affection, but he responded eagerly, kissing her back with vigour. Even Clary's imagination hadn't properly capture the reality of how soft his mouth truly was, and the feeling of his calloused hands playing notes across her skin. He was cautious and tender, yet she could feel the high-frequency thrum of his yearning, in the way he pulled her close to him. One of his hands was fisted in her hair, the other gripping her hip, as their mouths danced in an ever-increasing pace of synchronization.

Clary knew she was quietly falling in love with the way Jace made her feel—like she had power, place and presence. He acted like she was fascinating, unusual, and deserving of love. It had been a long time since Clary had felt like she was deserving of love.

Clary was heady and dizzy when they mutually broke away to catch breath. They were both panting as though they'd done sprints, and Clary's heart was reverberating almost painfully in her chest.

"You're going to kill me, Clary Fray." Jace whispered, and all Clary could manage was a breathy laugh. The room was almost pitch-black now, but Clary was sure she could feel Jace's eyes on her, studying her intently. She wanted to ask him what he could possibly see in such dim light, but he was pulling her close again, placing a gentle kiss on her head.

Clary couldn't resist the second call of sleep, and she let the gentle darkness pull her under.

*****

The churning in Alec's stomach had only increased as he did his wake-up rounds. Not only was Izzy's room painfully empty, Magnus' was nothing but a neatly-made bed, and empty set of drawers.

Alec took a deep breath to still his nerves, trying not to let himself chew his fingernails. Lately they were particularly raw, stinging whenever Alec washed his hands.

It seemed that with each person leaving, they took a healthy chunk of Alec with them. He knew it wasn't like either Izzy or Magnus were gone for good—but Alec needed the people he loved in his sight, near him. He was a sucker like that—much less independent than he'd like to admit. He was the protector, the nurturer, and when people left, he felt as though he was failing in his job.

The pain in his abdomen spiked, as he spotted Jace walking down the hallway. The boy's hair was freshly wet from the shower, and he was wrapped up in a knitted jumper and jeans.

Alec had been avoiding thinking about their argument for days now—determinedly putting it to the back of his mind whenever he saw Jace around the ward. But now that everyone that Alec cared about was disappearing, being mad at Jace seemed like wasted time. So naturally, he was going to get over himself and apologise.

Easier said than done.

Jace was nearly passing him now, and Alec still hadn't come up with anything. He fumbled with words, before finally he blurted,

"I'm an asshole."

This gave Jace pause, and he slowed to a stop before Alec, one cynical eyebrow raised.

"Alright." Was all he said, folding his arms defensively across his knit-covered chest.

"I'm sorry. For being stupid and mean about you wanting to help Clary. I'm an asshole. I'm just—", Alec took a deep breath to slow himself, but it was all pouring out now, "I'm just scared. Everyone is leaving, Jace! I can't protect anyone—and you're the last person I have here. But you're pouring all this energy and time into Clary and I… I was jealous? Ok? I don't have the same handle on my emotions as I make out. We can't all be mister 'chill guy' like you."

There was a long pause, and Alec's gut twisted as the pause in conversation. Anxiously, he peeped a look at Jace's face—

"Why are you smirking?" Alec cried in exasperation, "I'm serious!"

"Mister 'chill guy'?" Jace chortled, "That doesn't even have a ring to it."

Alec told Jace to do something very rude, which only earned Alec a burst raucous laughter from the boy.

"Honestly though, Alec?" Jace finally said, after he'd finished laughing, "I knew."

"You knew I'm an asshole?"

Jace rolled his eyes, but the grin on his face gave him away, "No, I knew you were jealous. And I get it. It's been me, you and Izzy for so long. We were all we had. And now Clary's here… but Alec, you don't need to worry. You have a special place in my life, Alec—you're like my brother. And no matter who else comes along, that's never going to change. I promise. So just tell that green-eyed monster to back off a little alright? There's enough of me to go around."

Alec put on an expression of annoyance at Jace's arrogance, but he couldn't deny the relief that was currently flooding his system.

"I've got to go sort breakfast." Alec excused himself, finding it harder and harder to fight the grin off his face.

"Yay, more stale Cheerios." Jace muttered as Alec walked away.

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that." Alec snapped back, but his grin broke through.


	13. Chapter 13

Though many didn't know it, there was a scale. Few girls in the world were clued up on the scale, and Izzy was one of them. She'd meticulously plotted herself on this scale—ranking herself against every other girl she laid eyes on. It was a constant running dialogue, and it had been in the forefront of Izzy's mind since she was thirteen years old.  
At the top of the scale, were the skeleton thin girls—the protrusion of skin against bone testament to their superior willpower. In the specialized eating disorder clinic—Izzy's temporary new home—these girls were the ones with the feeding tubes forced down their noses, often being pushed around in wheelchairs because they were too weak to walk. These girls were goddesses amongst the rest of them—at a state of control that Izzy wished she'd one day achieve. Below Izzy were the fatter girls—the ones still menstruating, still walking. The ones that took bites at dinner—the ones gradually getting fattened up by the system, like turkeys for Thanksgiving.

But this scale didn't just exist within the clinic. Every day, out in the street, Izzy was comparing, measuring and calculating. The girls with slimmer waists than Izzy, sharper collarbones, smaller ankles. Izzy chopped these girls up into sections, dissecting each feature, rating it and comparing it against herself. That girl had beautiful wrists—but a smattering of cellulite on the back of her thighs. That girl had slighter hips than Izzy's, and another had thighs that didn't jiggle when she walked. As opposed to Izzy, who took up too much room in the world. She felt like she was cramming her swollen, puffy body into a skin that didn't fit—her body was flabby, wobbly and disgusting—subcutaneous fat bursting under the surface.

They were in the dining area for lunch now, the nurses lurking like hawks—eagle eyeing each patient in the facility as they picked at their meals. There was a milk based smoothie (filthy cow secretion), four pieces of overcooked broccoli (grown in dirt and mud, sprayed with pesticides), a slice of lasanga (minced up cow carcass in carbs), and a small jelly cup for dessert (boiled hooves and addictive sugar). The whole plate was a collection of pesticides, chemically-preserved flesh, and mud and filth. Looking at it was making Izzy feel nauseous. The nurses were all against them, Izzy was sure. Why would they try force feed them such a cancerous mix of sludge? To fatten them, poison them?

Izzy wanted to see Alec and Max again—she wanted to play the Game of Life with Jace. She'd take a thousand graceless losses at a Scrabble board, just to laugh and joke with Jace—and her family—again.

Nothing was sacred in this clinic. Izzy's showers were monitored, and her calorie intake counted. She wasn't even allowed flush the toilet herself after she'd used it, lest she'd tried to purge her body of the sludge that had been forced into her.

Izzy knew, truly, her recovery would secure her leave of this place. But it wasn't as simple as it sounded. Izzy was battling a way of thinking—a way of life she rigorously maintained for six years of her life. The nurses, the doctors, they made it sound so simple. Gain weight, eat normally. But Izzy was fighting against an instinct, a reflex that seemed to be embedded in her bones and blood.

It reminded her of this fact Max had told her once. He'd gone through a zombie phase—reading all the comics and watching as many scary movies as Jace would sneak him. Max had told her—with a delightedly evil gleam in his eye—that the human body was capable of biting off its own finger, but the brain stopped you. That's how the zombies were able to tear into carcasses once they'd been turned—the instinct of strength preservation was overridden, the resistance to hurt their own bodies destroyed.

Izzy felt as though the clinic was trying to teach her to bite through her own finger, resist all instinct. When she tried to eat, tried to keep food down, there was an insistent voice in her mind, screaming that this was wrong—she would damage her body. And resisting that—was something Izzy wasn't sure she could do.

*****

"I'm sure they'll be back up soon."

The dark-haired nurse at the desk gave Simon a warm smile, before turning back to her paperwork.

Simon wanted to ask who 'they' was, but he could only assume. He'd seen the way the blonde-haired boy had stared Clary down—in a hungry way that made Simon's stomach seize up in knots of jealousy. Simon thought the boy looked like he'd wandered off a billboard—which some girls were attracted to, he supposed. But Simon though the boy looked much too haughty to be trusted, like he thought he were better than everyone else around him.

"So, you're Clary's boyfriend?"

The voice came from behind Simon, and he spun on his heels.

He couldn't have said for sure what he was expecting, but he was still a little stunned to find himself looking at a pretty girl. Simon initially noticed the curves beneath the t-shirt—he was a teenage boy after all—before recognizing the little 8-bit hearts printed on the material of it.

"Zelda." He said, almost to himself, when the girl held out a hand.

"Close, but my name is Maia."

Simon accepted the handshake, surprised by the old-fashioned introduction, as he lifted his eyes. He was met with chocolatey brown ones, steadily looking back into his own. Maia had a soft face, but it was hardened in a defensive way, almost daring him show vulnerability first.

"Simon. I'm Clary's male friend, but I don't think boyfriend is the right word." He corrected hastily, ignoring the pang he felt at his own comment.

Maia simply raised an eyebrow, and Simon had the feeling that she was looking right through his attempt to gloss over her comment.

"They'll be up soon, I'm sure." Was all she offered, turning on her heel, and leaving the foyer.

Simon groped for something witty—like he usually would in an unfamiliar situation—but nothing came to mind.

But Simon didn't have long to dwell on the temporary loss of his brilliant comedic talents—he could hear a familiar voice growing steadily louder as it came up the corridor. It was funny, how you could memorize voices. You could give Simon almost sentence in the world, and his mind could conjure up exactly how Clary would say it; her tone, inflection, even where the pitch of her voice would change ever so slightly to emphasize a word.

"…ridiculous." He caught her say, but it wasn't scathing.

"What can I say, I look good in pink." This voice was deeper, and it held a tone of arrogance, so that Simon knew who it was immediately. But he barely had a second to brace himself as they rounded the corner, and Clary spotted him. She'd been laughing at the boy's joke, but now her face broke into a look of surprise.

"Simon!" she cried, rushing for him.

Simon knew this tone, she was happy to see him. God knows he was searching her body language, for even a hint of reluctance, annoyance—but she was quickly enveloping him in a tight hug.

"I've missed you." She murmured to him, and Simon couldn't help the way his insides seemed to lift for a few seconds upon hearing her say it, and he squeezed her just as tightly in return, trying to return the sentiment.

But then she was pulling away, holding out an introductory hand to the pretty boy, who had decided to hang around this time, for some reason. Simon felt a wave of annoyance.

"Simon, this is Jace. Jace, Simon."

Usually Simon would say something nice, like 'Clary has told me so much about you.' Or another standard (and overused) line.

But Jace jumped in first. "I think I remember Clary mentioning you." He drawled, locking eyes with Simon. It was a clear threat, and Simon was suddenly aware of the inch and a half difference in height between them. He could feel Clary at his side, shooting daggers in Jace's direction.

"She mentioned you," Simon quipped in response, "But she never mentioned what you were locked up for?" he tried to keep his tone light, but they both knew he was accepting Jace's challenge.

"Simon!" Clary hissed incredulously, and her elbow was sharp in his side.

Simon swore that Jace's eyes flashed, but his face was still, and unreadable.

"I broke into a D&D convention with a machete. There were bits of nerd everywhere." Jace replied lightly. The boy's face broke into a dark grin when Simon felt himself blanch.

"Jace!" Clary cried angrily. She'd had apparently decided this was enough, as she grabbed Simon's arm and began to steer him for the rec room. "I talk to _you_ later, Jace." She snapped, a clear warning of an impending telling off. Simon was surprised by how much she sounded like Jocelyn, but figured Clary wouldn't appreciate the comparison.

*****

When they reached the rec room, Clary shoved Simon down into the nearest armchair with more force than Simon would've expected.

"Have you been working out?" he asked, but apparently this wasn't the appropriate time to broach that topic.

"Simon!" she scowled, "You were so childish back there!"

The rec room was flooded with light, as it always seemed to be. Simon folded his arms across his chest.

"He started it." He pouted.

Clary gave an exasperated sigh, "But you can't just go asking people why've they've been admitted!"

"Let me guess, it's one of the rules of your little 'asylum club'?"

Clary rolled her eyes, angrily setting herself down on a nearby couch, "There's no 'club', Simon. Don't be immature."

Somewhere inside, Simon was asking himself why he was so angry with Clary. It seemed to have popped into existence out of nowhere, and now he was letting the bitter words pour out as soon they arose.

"It might as well be, Clary. You've cut yourself off from the world in here. Playing happy families and ignoring everything happening outside of these walls. You won't even let me tell you Jonathan's final verdict!"

Clary stiffened up immediately at the mention of her brother's name, as though it was a hot poker brand to her skin. This cooled Simon's temper a little, seeing her reaction, and he softened his voice a little.

"I'm just worried you're using this place as an excuse to isolate yourself." He cut himself off, aware of the way Clary's hands had begun to flutter—a sign of anxiety.

"He…he didn't get off the charge, did he?" Clary whispered, as though she was afraid to entertain such a notion at normal volume.

Simon shook his head quickly, resting his still hands over Clary's shaking ones. "It's not the sentence we were expecting. But he's been put away, undoubtedly. We don't really know much more than that though, the process has kept quiet from us. It's hard to know what's happening. But he's locked up, Clary, they promised us that much."

Clary nodded, still looking shaken, but Simon noticed her hands had stopped quivering in her lap. He leaned across, pressing his lips to her forehead, in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. Once it all would've been so natural to Simon, but now he couldn't help inhaling the smell of her hair, admiring the softness of her skin under his lips.

"I don't know what I'd do without you, Simon." She told him firmly, after he'd released her from his embrace. "You're my real brother, my best friend. I couldn't imagine my life without you."

The words were bittersweet—like a kick in satin slippers, but a kick all the same.

"I know." He told her gently, pulling her in tight again, ignoring the ache in his heart as it floated around his ribcage. "I love you too."

*****

Clary was turning into her established habits. She was tepid showers at eight am, children's cereal and over-cooked toast at nine. She was loaded questions with Hodge at eleven, then physical electricity in the training room after lunch. Grey beans, sitcoms in the lounge, and fiercely competitive games of Scrabble against Maia after dinner. But from bedtime 'til sunrise, she was Jace's. The comfort she found in the plains of his body was undeniable—from his steady breaths to his murmured sleep talk. Sometimes Jace's arms tightened around her instinctively in his sleep. Clary could feel him in her dreams, his assertive aura battling the images and flashbacks that attempted to crowd her unconscious mind, tamper with heartbeat and make her wake in tears.

But the increases in pulse rate she experienced around Jace were for entirely different reasons. They'd shared a few nights of cautious passion now, but never below the belt. It was almost painful to Clary, the fervour he created within her, the peak which was never quite reached, dragging out Clary's blissful torture. Perhaps, Clary mused, this was a good thing. She was so detached from the idea of sex—as it only ever represented a form of abuse in her mind. Clary wasn't sure if she was ready—she could only just receive a heated kiss without brutal flashbacks. Maybe she needed gentle exposure, to be reconnected with this mutilated part of herself.

As though Jace could read her mind, he tried to be cautious. But as soon as his lips touched hers, he seemed to lose himself yet rein himself in all at the same time. It was strange the way in which his passion was represented. He treated Clary as though she was ambrosia—food of the Gods—yet only the smallest crumb. It was the only analogy Clary could use to describe the feeling of being devoured and savoured all at the same time.

But it was these habits, midnight lip-locking and midday kick-boxing, that made the days bleed into each other. Before Clary could count to catch up with herself, it was Christmas Eve and Clary had been in the clinic for just over a fortnight.

This was what Clary found her mind on, as she practiced striking with Jace in the gymnasium that day. The staff at the Clinic had made an attempt to bring some holiday cheer to the airy old mansion, and occasional pieces of sad looking tinsel adorned a few walls. Jace—naturally—found the staff's sad attempt rather amusing, and he'd taken to draping himself in stolen tinsel and bellowing Christmas carols down the halls. He'd even offered to show Alec a special spot on his body where he could hang a bauble, but Alec had respectfully declined the offer.

"Use your whole body to put force into the blow." Jace suggested, doing his usual laps of observation around Clary. She'd noticed that he tended to circle her twice before stepping in to physically show her how to do something. He was definitely a kinetic teacher, but Jace's touch tended to distract Clary more than it focused her.

She tried one more time, and Jace made a sound of encouragement. "That was good. Now ten more of those."

Clary fought back a groan. It had been two weeks now, and the training was still exhausting her. Sometimes—much to her dismay—she'd missed out on late night make-out sessions with Jace, as she'd fallen asleep immediately after a day of intense physical exercise. But, on a lighter note, there had been slight changes to her physique. Clary could swear there was a slight definition to her arms that there hadn't been previously.

"Five more, and then some one on one defence training?" she asked hopefully, and this earned her a mischievous grin.

"I've got to train you in some part. I'm fairly sure the others think all we do down here is make out."

Clary felt a pang at the word 'others'. After Magnus' departure, all that 'others' really meant was Maia and Alec. Alec had informed them of Magnus' departure the day after he'd gone, with a slightly more sombre expression than Clary would've expected. But Jace had assured them all that they'd see Magnus around—in fact, he had grinned impishly, he was going to make sure of it.

"Well, making out is a far more fun way to get sweaty." Clary grinned flirtatiously, before punching the bag forcefully.

"That is said like someone who doesn't know the thrilling endorphin release of a good work out. Maybe we should be training harder?" Jace suggested, the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement.

Before Clary could think of a witty response, the door to the gymnasium swung open. This no longer fazed Clary, another part of her unwavering routine. The patients of another, tighter-security ward filed in, and Clary barely regarded their beige scrub-wearing bodies in her peripheral vision.

Once Jace was satisfied with Clary's right hook—for now—he surrendered to one on one defensive moves. He'd taught Clary how to land correctly, and Jace had only just gotten comfortable with flipping Clary onto her back.

Once Clary zoned in, she could begin to see the appeal of Jace's rigorous exercise routine. When you got past the panting, and the sweat, there seemed to be a phase you entered with the exercise. Her concentration narrowed, and the limbs at her sides felt more like capable weapons, as opposed to flailing accessories.

Jace showed her how to block a behind attack, which perhaps the hardest move he'd shown so far. She was just getting it—once she got used to the feeling of Jace hard up against her back—when a voice from behind her made her freeze.

"Miss me?"

It was as though Clary's body had forgotten how to breathe. Her lungs sucked and drew painfully, but no air seemed to be making it in. She noted dimly the beginnings of a panic attack, as it felt as though someone had reached inside her chest, and had a death grip on her heart. No nightmare could recreate with such clarity the mocking inflection of his voice, the evil amusement he could portray in two syllables. But her body—which obviously hated her mind—was turning to face him.

And it was him.

This wasn't a dream—he was too crisp for that, to absolutely clear to be recreated in her nightmares. Her mind wasn't that cruel.

His hair was a few inches longer, but his irises were the same unholy black they'd always been, boring straight into her soul. He could set her on fire with just a look, and she was burning in a hell fire like no other now. Her entire body was protesting, paralysed, unwilling, and she was in her room again and he was in the doorframe coming towards the bed and she couldn't move couldn't scream couldn't fight him off—

"Clary? Clary!?" Jace's voice sounded like it was coming through a wall of water, warbled and hardly discernible through the solid block of blaring panic sirens that had filled her mind.

But his voice cut through, like ice.

"Found a new lover already?" he nodded towards Jace, before giving her a conspiratorial wink, like they were joking buddies, "Bet he's not as good as me though."

That was the limit. Her body, her mind, couldn't process the scene before her. The emergency switch was thrown, and she felt her eyes roll back into her head, as her body completely collapsed in on itself. The last thing she saw, an image she was sure that would be imprinted forever on the back of eyelids, was the beige of Jonathan's brand new asylum scrubs.


	14. Chapter 14

"Clary? Clary?!"

Jace felt as though he was being torn into. Half of his attention was on Clary, watching as the blood drained from her face, her skin turning an ashen-grey. Her reaction incited a protective instinct in Jace like no other, and he wanted to leap in front of Clary, and fight off all the things that were hurting her. But he couldn't fight off a memory, and Jonathan's presence was tearing open old wounds. He was picking scabs, he was lemon juice. God knew—and, Christ, how tightly coiled adrenaline was making him now—he couldn't strike Jonathan down. Not with the other patients around, not with the nurses and the ever-watching CCTV presence. It was too late now, anyway. The damage had been done.

Jace couldn't protect Clary from this. He could only try find a way to piece her back up, slowly rebuild the almost-security she'd begun to feel in her world. Try to find a way to give her faith, show her somehow, that she would find a safe place. That this wouldn't go on forever. That one day, she'd leave the danger behind her. That she wouldn't have to be afraid all the time.

It was funny, really. Jace remembered his violent reaction to Michael Wayland—the way his brain had completely bottomed out, and his body lashed out before he'd been even able to process the scene before him. Yet now, Jace was processing the scene before him in an unnaturally cool manner. It was like the voice of reason had leaned down close to him, barking simple instructions in his ear. _Jonathan wouldn't hurt Clary here. Not physically at least._

_He couldn't kill Jonathan. Not here anyway._

Jace felt like he was losing faith in the justice of the world.

Jonathan said something. Jace didn't hear—it was all warbled to him—but he watched the boy's smirking mouth moving. Clary's face turned paler still.

It hurt, because Jace knew what Jonathan was doing to Clary. Whatever safe-space she'd slowly crafted for herself, the cocoon of protection she'd created—out of scraps of self-preservation and recovery attempts, was now destroyed. Jonathan had entered that space, torn it down with his hands, and defiled it.

Jace couldn't protect Clary from that.

Suddenly she was dropping, her eyes rolling back in her head, and Jace ducked forward. He caught her just before she hit the floor.

Then Jonathan was crouching down beside them, arms out, as though he was intending on holding her.

That was nearly too much for Jace.

"Don't even think about touching her, you sick, sick fucker." Jace hissed, and Jonathan stiffened. It was a very slight movement, but Jace picked up on it—just.

Jonathan rose to his feet, hissing, "Whatever you think you know, you don't. But you know she's mine. I made sure of it."

But that was all Jonathan said, as the nurses that had seen Clary drop, were finally rushing over.

"Is she ok?" one asked.

God it was hard. Jace knew that if he told the truth, came out with it, let it all pour forth, then Jonathan would be moved. They'd put him away in the furthest possible place from Clary. But if only it were that simple. Put the big bad away, and the ill in the story would be all magically resolved. Curtains close. But Jace knew that no matter how far away Jonathan was sent, how tightly locked up he was, some damage wasn't so easily undone.

"She's just exercised a little too hard, and probably hasn't drunk enough water."

He scooped Clary up, standing, terrified by how fragile she felt in his arms. But he knew really, she was anything but.

"I'll take her back up to our ward. She'll be fine."

"Are you sure?" the nurse asked again, and Jace was too out of it to even register the features of the person he was talking to. All he dimly noticed was that Jonathan seemed to have disappeared, absorbed into the sea of beige clothed people that now crowded Clary, curious and concerned.

"I'm sure." He started heading for the gym's exit, never so eager to leave his place of refuge.

*****

There was a flurry of panic when Jace entered the ward with Clary's limp body in his arms. Aline at the front desk squealed, and Alec—always knowing when something's not right—came fast-walking into the ward's foyer.

"Little too much exercise." Jace explained, trying to elbow his way through the small throng of people that had suddenly appeared in front of him.

He could feel Alec trying to meet his eyes, trying to gauge the real situation. Alec could always see straight through Jace's lies, which was way Jace never attempted to employ one around his best friend.

"She's fine. Just let me put her in her bed." He repeated again, looking anywhere but at Alec.

Finally he managed to shuffle through, his brain able to process nothing but getting Clary down onto a soft surface.

*****

He let her down gently, making sure her head didn't loll as he rested it on her pillow. Jace was almost a little glad she'd fainted—giving her body an opportunity to recover before her mind was forced the process the events of the last hour.

Like Jace's mind could only process one task at a time, his next task popped into existence.

He was going to kill Jonathan. The thought filled him with a sense of calm, like he'd taken a deep, slow breath after fighting to reach the surface.

He wasn't sure when, and he wasn't sure how. But inevitably, he was going to watch as the life faded from Jonathan's eyes, watch the boy struggling to draw his last breath, and feel his body twitching and spasming for life under Jace's fingertips.

There was nothing roaring or red-hot in Jace's anger, only a cool realization of the inevitable action he was going to take.

With that, the next set of instructions popped into Jace's head, smothering any panic he'd normally be feeling. Jace also noted that this was shock felt like.

Suddenly Alec was at Clary's door, his eyes boring into Jace's with urgency.

"Jace. What the hell is going on?"

Alec had his adult voice on, and Jace fought through the initial instinct to tell Alec everything.

Trying to keep his gaze steady, Jace met Alec's eyes with a calm authority, "I need Clary's cellphone."

It was obvious that Alec had been expecting explanation, and his face twisted into disbelieving shock,

"…are you all there, Jace? I can't get you Clary's cellphone. And I need to know why Clary is unconscious, and why you won't let anyone in to check on her."

He was Nurse Alec now, and Jace knew only Friend Alec would even consider Jace's request.

"Alec. You're just going to have to trust me. I need Clary's cellphone, for her own safety."

He tried to hold their eye contact, trying to see if Alec would show weakness, and bow under Jace's requests.

"I think _I_ , Jace, as a trained staff member of Fairchild, should be the one deciding what is best for Clary's safety!"

Jace took a deep breath, trying to tamper down the flare of anger he felt towards Alec. Alec was trying to do his job, trying to prove himself, and he was concerned for both of them. He understood Alec's position. But he couldn't communicate why he needed the cellphone, or why—at this minute—it was of crucial importance that Alec just do as he asked.

"Alec. _Please_."

Jace had used please only a handful of times, and it usually was indicative to the urgency of the situation. He watched Alec's resolve crumble, and the boy begrudgingly let his shoulders slump in defeat.

"You get five minutes with it. That's it! And then you're going to explain what the hell is going on. Ok?"

Jace nodded, "I promise."

Sometimes, a white lie never hurt anyone.

*****

Thankfully, Clary was the kind that didn't have a passcode on her old looking phone. Jace skimmed the contacts list and—with Alec standing guard outside Clary's room—punched the call button.

Jace turned to check on her as it rung. She hadn't stirred, but the steady rise and fall of her chest reassured him. He'd let Clary rest for as long as they possibly could.

"Clary!" the excitement in Simon's voice was palpable, even through a phone call.

"It's Jace."

"Oh."

The sudden disappointment in that one syllable had less than no effect on Jace.

"I need you to tell me about Jonathan's court case. What was his sentencing?" he probed urgently.

He could feel the idiot stiffen up, "I don't know why that's any of your business." Simon said snootily.

"It isn't. But since it involves the immediate safety of Clary, I suggest you impart with the information."

There was a frozen silence on the other end, and Jace growled as he realized this was chewing through his valuable five minutes.

"Listen, peroxide brain, if you've done anything to Clary I'll—"

Jace laughed darkly. He hated to admit it, but the absolute awfulness of today had entirely dried out his already low supply of patience.

"You'll what, throw comic books at me? Maybe if you weren't so socially incapable and generally useless, you'd realize that we both share similar feelings for Clary. Yes, I know how you feel, because I'm not a complete buffoon and you haven't learnt that your heart has a place aside from your sleeve. I hate to admit that I have anything in common with a mouth-breather like you, but since this information is for the safety of Clary, I was hoping we could put our differences aside and you could tell me about Jonathan's verdict."

This earned Jace thirty-seconds of stunned silence.

"For fuck's sakes—" Jace growled, as Alec motioned to his wrist through the glass pane in Clary's door.

"Alright, alright." Simon snapped, apparently at a loss and finally realizing the urgency of the situation, "Jonathan's verdict was incurable insanity. Apparently he had some weird stuff going on up there, and he wasn't in a fit mental state to be tried as a functioning adult."

"And?"

Simon huffed, "That was it. It was taken out of our hands. We assumed they had special wards in the prisons for people like him, or something. We weren't told. That was that."

"And Clary knew about the verdict?"

There was a pause—a very guilty one, "I tried to tell her. But she wasn't interested."

Jace sucked in a breath. He was trying to get to the bottom of this—why such a gargantuan error had occurred. But, Jace realized, they didn't have the insight he did. Nobody knew the full story, and why Jonathan was such a danger to Clary. To the courts, Fairchild's criminally insane ward was a good choice for a crime as simple as arson, for a young offender. Jace doubted they even realized Clary had been a voluntary admittance to Fairchild, or if they even had access to that information. It didn't help—from what Jace had seen of the news report on TV, the one that had spooked Clary—Jonathan and Clary didn't even share the same last name. In a system so large, it was a mistake that had slipped through the cracks, and no one knew what a grievous error it truly was.

Simon—annoyingly—filled the silence as Jace groped for answers, "What, no thank you? Did they forget to teach you manners at douche-bag school?"

Jace sighed, "That was a horrible comeback." And then he hung up.

But Jace barely had a moment to think, to process his thoughts, as Clary sucked in a panicked breath as her eyelids began to flutter.

"That's it!" Alec declared angrily, apparently having seen Clary begin to wake through the peeping glass. He stormed the room, rushing straight to Clary's side—completely Alec the Nurse now.

"Jace, go grab a doctor from the general clinic. We need to make sure her vitals are alright, or if she needs some kind of treatment." Alec snapped, placing his fingers on Clary's wrist pulse point.

But as Jace—reluctantly—began to leave the room, Clary sat bolt upright. The pure panic on her face hadn't calmed, and was just as bone-chillingly terrified as it had been when she'd laid eyes on Jonathan.

"Jace!" she gasped, shaking violently, "Is he—is—"

Jace could see it clearly, and he knew the sensation well. Clary was entering the full blows of a panic attack, and Jace hoped he never felt this truly powerless ever again.

She struggled with the words, trying to talk over Alec's murmured reassurances,

"Is… he... he's… real?"

There was nothing Jace could do. He gave Clary a curt nod.

She'd already known it. But this wasn't what she'd wanted to hear.

Tears brimmed, quickly spilling down her cheeks as her body drew panicked breaths.

Jace knew the feeling. It was almost as though something was trapped in your throat, while being simultaneously assaulted by the feeling of something heavy pressing on your chest. You can feel your body rebelling, resisting its orders, and you are sure, in that moment, that your heart is going to falter, before stopping completely.

He didn't want to leave, but he needed to do what Alec said. Because another order had just been whispered in his ear.

*****

By the time Jace had raced back, doctor in tow, Clary's panic attack was almost over. She looked very shaken, and pale as a ghost, but still. When he entered the room, her eyes met his only. He immediately recognized the steely determination in them, paired with a sort of deadness that made him feel all nauseous inside. He was watching Clary shut off parts of herself, initiating her walls of defence, and he was afraid to be caught outside them as they came crashing down.

*****

The doctor's advice had been to rest up, eat dinner, and not do rigorous exercise tomorrow. Alec had promised that Hodge would go over the events tomorrow, and that Clary had nothing to be ashamed of. She'd nodded automatically, and then they'd left her be—until the only other in her room was Jace.

She couldn't even begin to process her thoughts. Everything was too raw, too real, and she carefully filed it away in the 'review later' of her mind. But for all the compartmentalization of her mind, she couldn't shut of the natural reaction of her body. She couldn't help flinching as she caught glimpses of Jonathan in her peripheral vision, couldn't prevent a shudder as the shadows in the corner of her room seemed to twist and morph into his leering face.

She looked for Jace, the only person she knew would truly understand. As soon as their eyes met, they realized they'd both reached the same non-verbal agreement.

"Jace…" her voice was tired, even though her panic alarms were far from shut down, and adrenaline still flooded her body.

He crossed the room in an instant, not needing to ask permission as he scooped her up, holding her as tightly as she was sure he could. Every inch of their body touched, but Clary didn't feel the fire in her belly she usually associated with Jace's touch. She knew—she could feel—that he was shielding her, protecting her, and trying to hold her together. But she could tell, from the way he shook, that he needed holding together too.

*****

They made it through dinner silently, eating one-handed as their hands stayed interlocked under the table. Maia didn't question the silence, and Alec's watchful gaze was accompanied by no comment.

They crawled into bed together, with no comment from the patrolling nurses, switching off the light. But they stayed awake, too loaded up on a cocktail of anxiety and anticipation to sleep, simply holding each other in the dark. And when the skeleton crew clocked on—the daytime nurses at home—they silently bagged their bags. Jace jumped the front desk, picking the lock on the cabinet to retrieve their banned belongings.

And, in the first few minutes of Christmas Day, they left Fairchild Clinic behind—nothing more than charred remains of another illusionary safe haven.


	15. Chapter 15

The emotional cocoon around Clary didn't even pause to let the cold in, and Clary's disjointed senses took note of the snow catching in her hair, filing it away as less than important.

The predominant feeling in her body was Jace's hand gripping hers, leading her firmly through the barely filled carpark of Fairchild Clinic, which was shadowed by the heavy manor blocking the limited moonlight.

"Jace," her voice stumbled a little, whether from cold or shock, she wasn't sure, "where are we—"

"I don't want to make you jealous, but there's another woman in my life."

The joke was forced, but he played out the line with a smile about his mouth, continuing to pull her to the far side of carpark, which happened to be the shadiest.

Clary was about to ask him to clarify, before they stopped at a solitary car space, occupied by a misshapen object, smothered by some kind of cover.

"I hope she works," Jace muttered to himself, "I warmed her up yesterday."

Though he was clearly enjoying the aura of suspense he'd created, but he stripped back the cover, revealing a large motorbike, a pearly white colour in the relative darkness.

"May I introduce, the Duchess."

Shock temporarily stripped Clary of words, her first thought tumbling from her mouth without consent,

"Mom said she'd kill me if I ever got onto a motorbike with a boy."

Jace barked a laugh, "Nothing wrong with a little teen rebellion to spice things up."

He fetched the keys from his jacket pocket—leather, she noticed suddenly—fiddling with the caboose on the back. He produced a single helmet—a similar pearly white—handing it immediately to Clary.

"Have you only got one?" she stammered, not sure she wanted Jace to prioritize his safety over hers.

"It'll be fine." He reassured, "Roads will be quiet this time of night."

They pushed it to the end of Fairchild's long driveway, as Jace feared the bike's engine would wake residents and alert the nurses to their departure. It wasn't illegal to leave—Jace was an adult and Clary was almost—but Jace wanted to cut ties with the place as soundlessly and peacefully as possible, needing a clean break from the place that was only reinvigorating Clary's trauma.

Clary startled a little at the rumble of the bike, the noise jarring even through the muffle of the bike helmet. Jace swung his leg over with ease, his thighs tightening effortless around the machine, which seemed to whine with eagerness to take off.

She was a little intimidated—of the speed and power of the thing—but the thought of staying, sleeping in the very same walls her brother slept within, was an even more terrifying sight. So, out of necessity to leave, rather than necessity to be somewhere, she swung onto the bike, sliding up behind Jace.

"Hold on." He encouraged, but allowed Clary to slide into him on her own terms, grabbing him firmly by the waist.

They took off with a roar, and Clary was jolted back in her seat a little by the force of it, and she clung to Jace a little tighter.

Maybe it was putting distance between herself and the Clinic, or maybe it was the icy air slicing through her winter coat, but it felt like the self-defensive calcification that had engulfed Clary over the events of the last few days was peeling away, and 'average' thoughts seemed to be slipping in, as she was made properly aware of her surroundings.

The first, immediate—and a little panicked—thought was her current position on the back of a motorbike, racing through snow and potentially icy streets. Her mother would really kill her.

The second was how close Jace was, and how his presence here was so comforting yet unexpected. He'd seemed a permanent fixture at Fairchild Clinic, and imagining the two of them outside it—together—was odd.

But if there was a clear thought in Clary's mind, it was that she wouldn't return to Fairchild Clinic as long as Jonathan continued to breathe. Now that the initial cocoon of shock was wearing down, it was providing time for her body to process the true horror of seeing him again, which was almost the worst part.

The visor hid the first wave of shocked tears, and she forced herself to gulp them back as rural scenes turned suburban, before the building stretched and grew the closer they got back to the metropolis of Manhattan.

It felt like it had only been minutes as Jace finally slowed the bike, drawing up to a curb on one of the quieter roads. Clary's only indication of time passing was her numb fingers, frozen into place where they'd been clinging onto Jace's jacket.

"Here." He indicated she had to get off first, and Clary wrenched the helmet off her face, sticky with salty tears. She hoped the puffiness from her face would've gone, or Jace wouldn't be able to see it under the dirty streetlamps.

Able to analyse her surroundings better now, Clary realized they were in a shitty area not too far from downtown, with questionable buildings containing even more questionable businesses. A few people still occupied the streets—even at this hour, even on Christmas Day—and most of them were slowly filtering out of an old bar, it's signage switched off and a begrudging bouncer ushering them into the pavement.

"Ah." Was all Jace said, jumping off the bike and grabbing Clary's hand. Much to her concern, he started dragging her for the greasy pub,

"Jace, we're not twenty-one—"

"Don't worry." He assured, and Clary bit her tongue—reminding herself that Jace's plan was better than no plan, as it was more than she had.

The bouncer eyed them warily when they reached the entrance, holding out an arm when Jace attempted to confidently stride past. It wasn't until you stood close to him that you really realized how many inches over six feet he was, and how his neck was roughly the same size as Clary's left thigh.

"We're closing." He squinted in the low-light at Clary, who shifted uncomfortably as she felt extra aware of her childlike stature, "And she," he nodded at her, "is not twenty-one."

"No worry." Jace replied with a charismatic smile, "I'm just looking for the esteemed Mister Bane."

The bouncer looked conflicted for a moment, "You want Bane?"

"The one and only." Jace replied with an ease Clary wished she could have even a fraction of.

"Yo, Magnus!" The bouncer yelled into the empty pub, apparently not swayed enough to let them inside the establishment.

Magnus appeared a few seconds later, dressed in a tinsel covered elf outfit, which only accentuated his lean limbs,

"Not quite what I asked for for Christmas." If he was surprised to see the two of them on the doorstep he didn't sound it, giving them him usual mysterious smile.

"I don't think people as naughty as you get presents this good, Magnus." Jace quipped.

Magnus' mouth twitched in amusement, before waving a hand in the beefy bouncer's direction, "Let them in, Artie, I'll make sure not a drop of alcohol touches their underage lips."

The bouncer grunted—not sounding pleased—but stood aside, and Jace was dragging Clary into a bar just as ill-lit as the street outside. The bar was bathed in neon red light, and round tables covered in a layer of grime that seemed an inch thick.

"Don't judge the appearance of the bar too much, I've barely owned it a week." Magnus said mildly as he led them to the closest table, indicated they sit down. Both Jace and Clary obliged, but Clary made a conscious decision not to rest her forearms on the table. Magnus stayed standing,

"I was thinking some more neon, maybe some shag wall-carpet, go-go cages—"

"You own a bar?" Clary asked in disbelief, trying to imagine the glittered smattered elf before her doing something as adult as owning a business, however greasy it was. But then she reframed, seeing the ethereal and sage Magnus Bane, owning a business, and it seemed more than likely.

He smiled, in a way that made the viewer feel extremely young and small in a gracious way, "A friend owed you a favour."

"He owed you a bar?" Clary repeated, and Magnus shrugged, waving his hands airily as though dismissing the conversation.

"Can I get you anything? Orange juice? A warm milk?"

Jace shook his head, shifting in the vinyl of the bar stool in a way that indicated business, "We've actually got a favour to ask you."

Magnus nodded, "I had a feeling this three am visit wasn't a social call." He finally settled at the table, wearing the cheap stool like it was a throne.

"We need a place to stay, just for tonight and the next." Jace's voice was sincere, "The banks don't open until tomorrow—closed for Christmas, of course—but once we've got money, we'll be out of your hair. Promise."

Magnus' expression was in its usual pensive standby setting, and he seemed to be analysing the two of them intently.

After a moment's pause—which Jace let him have—he spoke, "I'd ask what you're running from, but I'd realize that's hypocritical considering my own youth."

Jace's brow creased, "Just have faith that it's a valid reason to run."

"And," Magnus continued, "there is potential for a lecture, on the consequences of your actions, and how they'll affect Alec and Izzy, not to mention Clary's family."

Jace nodded, "We know."

"But it's not my responsibility or right to ask questions. Yes, you can stay in my apartment. I do only have one guest bed, but I assume that is not an issue."

Jace's shoulders sagged a little, "Thank you, so much. We won't be a bother, I swear."

"Am I supposed to keep your visit a secret?"

Jace finally met eyes with Clary, as though searching for an answer with her, before turning back for Magnus, "We're not hiding from anyone we love. We just… need space, away from Fairchild Clinic, and away from people who will attempt to put us back there."

Magnus nodded, "Both of you are practically adults, no one is going to make you do anything." But he'd apparently worn out his serious side, as he stood, "I've still got another half-hour and cleaning and cashing up to do, but help yourself to anything non-alcoholic from the bar. I think there are some chips as well."

Jace took Magnus' word, bringing back four packets of honey roasted peanuts and two glasses of cranberry juice.

"Jace," Clary said urgently, as he sat down, concentrating on tearing the foil packets open, "I didn't even think about money, I didn't think of any of this, how—"

It was like Clary's ability for logical thinking was only just switched back on, and the stupidity of fleeing in the middle of the night, with a boy she'd recently met, with nowhere to go and no money, had struck.

"I can't believe—" she stammered out, and Jace quickly interrupted.

"Don't worry." He said in a placating tone, grabbing her hands firmly in his own, squeezing lightly, "Money is not an issue. We'll find somewhere. Just trust me. I swear and promise you'll be safe, Clary."

"I don't understand—" Was it shock kicking in again? Or maybe common sense?

"I've got money." Jace explained, "My parents…" he shifted a little, looking uncomfortable, but he still held her hands, "My parents left me a large inheritance. I've had access to it since I turned eighteen. Don't worry." He paused, "Have a packet of peanuts," he nudged one towards her, "food is good for shock."

*****

It didn't take long for Magnus to finish up, and they trailed behind his car on the motorbike. The air only felt more stinging after a brief stint in the warm bar, and Clary was more aware of her shivering form as they cut through streets and overpasses.

They seemed to be getting closer to the water, and Magnus finally pulled to a halt in the warehouse area by the docks, where rows and rows of identical—and seemingly empty—buildings stood alongside one another, and they followed Magnus' long stride to one near the end.

Fumbling with a key—his fingers must've been as cold as Clary's—he opened an unremarkable door at the front of the building, which opened directly to stairs. They headed up in darkness, Magnus leading the way, unlocking another door at the top. Clary was first hit by the smell of incense, like a hippie goods store, selling healing crystals and meditating mats, before Magnus was encouraging them inside, out of the cold.

The lights switched on not a second later, and Clary was simultaneously surprised and completely unsurprised by Magnus' place of residence.

It looked like a cross between an art museum and a hipster café, with odd trinkets and strange furniture strewn across the exposed wooden floor. It was all one room, the kitchen, lounge, and dining area, each of it draped and various fabrics and furs, like the dressing room of a drag show.

The far wall was all windows, which probably showed a remarkable view of the water when it was light out enough to see.

Magnus shucked his shoes, flinging them across the room, before all but crawling to the longue and throwing himself into a bright orange armchair.

"Make yourselves tea, if you'd like. I apologise for not being a gracious host, but those little elf shoes were killing my feet."

Clary and Jace were a little more careful with disposing their items, both lining their shoes neatly at the doorway and clutching their backpacks nervously. Clary was worried that if she touched anything she'd break it, as though the pair of Magnus' underwear lying on the dining room table were as precious as a Monet.

"The bedroom is down that hall," he said, pointing to a hallway on their left that Clary hadn't noticed before, due to it being partially obscured with a large oak bookshelf that was stuffed to bursting with all manner of odd books and odd ends, "Second door on the right."

"I don't suppose you'd mind if we went straight to bed?" Jace asked, seeming just as wary as Clary in this unfamiliar and very eccentric space.

"Not at all. You must be tired after enacting a scene from your own John Green novel." He teased, the sparkle in his eye dimmed a little by exhaustion, "Or if not that, eating all my peanuts must've worn you down."

Jace shrugged unapologetically, heading for the hallway. Clary followed cautiously, picking her way around a coffee table with a yin-yang symbol painted on, and what looked like a badly stuffed peacock.

"The bathroom is the first door on the left," Magnus told her, "if you wanted to shower."

She paused, realizing she'd barely said a word to Magnus all night, "Thank you, by the way."

He softened a little in the armchair, giving her a sympathetic smile. She was too tired to think about how each of Magnus' smiles meant a different thing, as though the tightening of his cheek muscles and twist of his lips was another dialect of English, "It's quite alright, Clary." He said, before his eyes drifted closed a little, and Clary took that as her cue to leave.

Hot water made Clary realize how truly exhausted she was, from running away from a mental institution, to riding on the back of a motorbike. She decided that she wasn't going to think any of it over, however, and was just happy there was a warm bed and a warm body to snuggle next to.

Drying her hair the best she could, she clambered into the double bed, where Jace was lying in wait for her. The boy leaned to the bedside table, flicking the lamp off, and they closed the distance between their bodies, letting one another's heartbeats send them into a well-earned sleep.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, no spoilers, but major trigger warnings!

It was a rare experience to wake before Jace, and Clary felt disconcerted as her sleepy mind tried to reassert itself upon waking in an unfamiliar room. It wasn't the Clinic, that was for sure—and was this bright orange wallpaper textured?

By the time she'd sat up, Jace's arm tightened around her as he grumbled in his sleep, her memories of last night were all neatly lined up and organized, but still in the process of being processed.

Her phone was buzzing arrogantly in the front pocket of her backpack, which was probably what had woken her in the first place. She reached for it, not to answer the call, but to assess the damage.

Lying back in bed, she flicked through the call log, cringing at the aftermath she wish she hadn't caused. Fifty missed calls from her mother, and at least twenty more each from Luke, Simon and a few unknown numbers that she could only assume were the Clinic and the nurses.

Another call lit up the screen, and Clary's stomach twisted as her mother's name was formed in the pixels, the phone buzzing insistently in her increasingly clammy hand.

"Shit."

First instinct was to answer it, but she knew they wanted an explanation Clary couldn't provide. Of course they couldn't understand—everyone around her only had the corner pieces of a puzzle they thought they'd finished. Since telling Jace, every other conversation felt so false, like the truth wasn't satisfied lying with one person—it was a selfish lover.

The front that she was constantly providing, the lack of explanation, the hollow excuses felt just as false to her as they probably felt to her family. In this room, here with Jace, nothing was falsified. Everything was bare, and it was a feeling she'd missed after years of truth shared only with her abuser.

The last thing she wanted was her need for escape to hurt her family. But she just couldn't deal with her mother.

Clary wriggled from Jace's grip—he gave a groan of protest—and she slipped across the hall and into the bathroom. Tapping at the screen, she pulled up Simon's number. He answered after the first ring.

"Clary! You're ok? Are you ok? We've been worried sick—"

"I know, I'm sorry." She said quickly; Simon's panicked voice hurt her more than she'd expected.

"Your Mom got a call from the Clinic at eight, saying you'd disappeared, and asking if you were at home. So then Jocelyn panicked, and she's been threatening to call the police but you haven't been gone long enough, and Luke's been trying to calm her down—"

"I'm fine. I'm sorry, really."

Simon barely paused for breath, "Luke and Jocelyn are driving around now, I'm at your house. Just tell me where you are, and they'll go pick you up. Doesn't matter how far, they'll—"

Clary took a breath, "Simon, _Simon_." She interjected, sensing his tone was only growing more harried the more they talked, "Listen. I don't need to be picked up. I'm fine."

There was a long pause, "Wha—Clary, what do you mean? Where are you?"

"I'd rather not say. But I'm fine."

Simon inhale was sharp, seemingly sharp enough to pierce Clary right in the sternum, "Clary, I don't understand."

She stared very hard at one particular tile on Magnus' floor, which seemed to be inlaid with shards of blue bottle glass, "I just need space, Si. I needed to get away from the Clinic. I promise I'm safe, and I'll text you with updates. I just…" she sighed, her free hand toying anxiously with a strand of hair, "I need to go somewhere for a while."

"No, no, no, Clary. You need to go back to Fairchild, and get through whatever this is. It isn't you! This is depression, or whatever is wrong with you, doing the talking. The real Clary, she needs to get help. Clary, please—" Simon's voice broke a little, and guilt had Clary shaking.

"Trust me, Simon. Please. I'm still me. Me just needs time and space. We'll be safe, please tell Mom not to worry."

"We?" Simon asked, "It's Jace, isn't it? He's planted some ridiculous idea in your head—"

"No, Simon! I can make my own decisions! I'm not a child!" tears were flowing now, and Clary fought to keep her voice steady for him, worried that tears would undermine her point.

"You sure are acting like one!" Simon's sudden outburst—even across the phone—made Clary jump, but he quickly backpedaled, "I'm sorry Clary, I didn't mean that. Please, please come home. We can all talk this over, nothing is decided, just please—"

"Tell Mom I'm safe." She said finally, "I'll text, I promise."

"Clary, Clary, no—" Simon's voice grew tinny as she pulled the phone from her ear, before she tapped to hang-up.

It was just habit now. She didn't even have to think before she was searching Magnus' bathroom cabinet, drawing out a disposable leg razor from an open packet. It was a flutter of excitement, a burst of endorphins for the rush her body anticipated. She took the head of the razor, cracking it open on the edge of Magnus' marble sink. It held three razors, little more than beaten strips of metal even thinner than a fingernail.

Normally, she'd always used the razors from pencil sharpeners. The little screw that held the blade in place was quick to undo with a butter knife, and the more expensive the sharpener, the more substantial the blade. Being an artist, it wasn't unusual to fork out on drawing supplies, and her mother hadn't blinked at the sight of one in her room.

On the 'day-she-didn't-talk-about', she'd been trying a straight razor for the first time, an impulse buy from a men's store on her walk home from school. She'd told the shop assistant it was her father's birthday—an unnecessary lie—and embellished a ridiculous story of a father she (in reality) despised and a happy family she'd invented. What had surprised her, was how particular the angle had to be to make an incision. The blade had quite a bit of thickness to it, which meant it had to held the right way to even make a cut. But when it did—and oh boy, had it—it created an uncontrollable gash that Clary sworn she hadn't put enough force in to create.

Clary was reminded of the first therapist she and her mother had seen, and how the therapist had tried to describe Clary's habit in a way their mother would understand,

_What most people don't realize, Jocelyn, is that self-harm is an addictive habit. When the body feels pain, it releases a little cocktail of happy chemicals, like endorphins and dopamine. This is to ease the pain, but it is very easy for a person to become addicted to the little rush. It isn't a matter of Clary doing this to spite you, or for attention, but rather an addictive coping mechanism that she needs to overcome, like any other addiction. But due to the stigma, most people associate behaviors of self-harm with attention seeking, and not as a genuine problem._

It was a flutter, an excitement, a slight dark anticipation. It was pushing herself, seeing how much she could tolerate, seeing how much give was in her instinct to resist pain. A little satisfaction always followed it—at depth, length, bleeding—before a faint feeling that had Clary swaying where she sat on the toilet lid. Three little nicks on the underside of each arm, the sorest spot, but the easiest to hide.

Putting herself back together was another part of the process, dabbing the wounds, using antiseptic. Magnus didn't seem to have any plasters, so Clary cleaned them carefully, drawing her long sleeved pajama shirt back down.

She took three deep breaths, flushing the bloody tissues, before washing her hands. The urgency of pain, its insistence to be heard, occupied all of her thinking space, and all other thoughts were pushed to the back of her mind to make room.

It was the half an hour after, where her mind was calmly blank, her body and it's traitorous reactions punished for their earlier betrayals. If she had to compare it to anything, it'd be a meditative state.

She tried to be quiet as she slipped across the hallway and back into Magnus' guest room, but Jace was already awake, sitting on the edge of the bed and rubbing at his eyes,

"What time is it?" he asked, his voice groggy with sleep.

"Just past ten." Clary replied, hearing her own deadness in her tone.

"Magnus awake yet?"

"Nope." She switched her phone off, as the screen lit for the fourth time since her conversation with Simon.

Jace turned to face her, his grin tired, "You've been popular as well, huh?"

Clary shrugged, "Apparently there's something dramatic about fleeing a mental asylum at the dead of night on a motorbike."

Jace was half-way through a chuckle when his expression froze, sliding into concern,

"Clary, your arm is…"

She knew immediately where his gaze had slid, and she followed it, only just noticing the small patch of blood that had seeped through her pajama shirt.

"Clary, did you—"

"It's none of your business." She snapped, anger her first reaction, as her stomach bottomed out. The act itself was second nature to her, but she still couldn't cope with the idea of anyone knowing, raw shame filling her at Jace's look of pitying concern. Part of her searched for disappointment in it, while the rest of her lashed out.

"What, you thought running away was meant to make me 'all better'? You know fuck-all about me!"

He stood, "Please Clary, just let me look at them. You might need stitches."

"You know, you can't just magically 'fix' people! Life isn't Silver Linings fucking Playbook!" her voice was growing louder, but Jace didn't move.

"You're right, and I'm not trying to 'fix' you. Just sit down and lift your sleeve, please."

Maybe it was how calmly he stood, or how he watched her pace angrily around the room without flinching. Most other people reacted in panic, fear, a lack of understanding. Often Jocelyn would get angrier, reflecting Clary's own back onto her. Luke would give up, storming from whatever room they'd be in and not returning for hours. Simon would only grow more frustrated, all but tearing his hair out when Clary gave him non-answers or incessantly deflected.

"I…" her voice broke a little, "I'm sorry. Sorry. I'm an asshole."

She slumped down onto the bed, trying not to tense up with guilt—it was always guilt, and more guilt—and Jace sat next to her, elbows resting on his knees.

"You're not an asshole." There was a pause, and Jace's face twisted a little, "You wanna hear a fucked up story of mine?"

"Did your father leave you in the woods, with only breadcrumbs to get home?" she quipped, and Jace's expression twisted into something a little more wry,

"My story is more like Hansel and Re-Gretel." He sighed, stretching his arms out before him. His wrists clicked—Clary cringed—and he spoke, "It was a little over a year ago, between my first admission to Fairchild and the second.  
I was over at Izzy's—at one of her forced dinners, before I went off the radar—and I was in the lounge waiting for dinner. A little high, but not obviously so. My phone, which was in my bag, in the foyer, apparently started ringing, and Izzy dove in there to answer it. If that's one irritating thing about Izzy, she doesn't have any respect for personal boundaries, unless they're her own.  
But while she was in there, she found the remains of a baggie of smack, completely cleaned out.  
She freaked, calling me out in front of Alec, and I completely lashed out.  
I was totally mortified—embarrassed at myself for relapsing, embarrassed she'd found out, and guilty I hadn't been strong enough to resist or ask for help.  
There's nothing harder than admitting you're weak, and that you've undone months of hard work just to get a little high. Christ, even now, six months clean, and I still get a little nostalgic about the feeling. If someone offered me a baggie, free of charge, right now, I know I wouldn't be able to say no."

He took a breath, scratching at his neck and Clary realized that he was embarrassed, "So, no, Clary I'm not trying to fix you. But I'm never going to be disappointed, or angry, or upset, or take any of this personally. Your recovery… it's all you. And trust me, I know better than anyone else that healing isn't a linear process. It takes slip ups and mega fuck-ups and letting everyone around you down. But that's what gives you the motivation to keep at it." He laughed, "God, I sound like a fucking narcotics anonymous pamphlet. They like drilling clichés into you, let me tell you."

"No, I," Clary shifted. These weren't easy conversations to have, "I know what you mean. And I'm sorry for saying those rude things. For one, Silver Linings Playbook actually had a pretty good depiction of mental illness, and it was a brilliantly done movie..."

Jace laughed, "Ok, true."

"Look, I know you're trying to be nice, but I can't show you my cuts." She bit her lip, "It's too personal. I'm just not comfortable—"

"No, it's ok." Jace said quickly, "As long as you don't think they'll bleed out, or get infected."

Clary shook her head, "I put antiseptic on them. If I thought they'd bleed out, I'd tell you."

"Promise?"

"Pinky promise."

Jace relaxed a little, "Good. Hey, seeing as sleeping glitter isn't awake yet, do you want to head out for breakfast? I'm sure there should be a fast food joint open on Christmas."

"We might as well take advantage of corporate greed." Clary smiled, and Jace reciprocated,

"Oh, and hey, Merry Christmas!"

"Merry Christmas, Jace."


	17. Chapter 17

They took the bike to the nearest golden arches, guided by hunger and lights in the shop window. Parking as close as they could get, Jace fed the meter with a few spare coins. Clary fiddled with the sleeves of her jumper as they took off, forcing herself not to search for familiarity in the strangers that slipped past them.

Guilt accompanied them on the short walk, and Clary half expected to be hassled like she and Jace's crime was written across their foreheads.

Technically—she frantically reminded her steadily increasing heartbeat—technically, she was doing nothing wrong. She was of age to consent to medical procedures, as was Jace, and fleeing their Clinic was entirely their decision.

Though their act of rebellion was entirely legal in this state, Clary felt that the effect her fleeing had had on her family should've been considered a grave crime. At least then her guilt ridden anxiety would measure up to the act, in a place outside her own mind.

A shoulder met Jace's, and the two paused, beads of sweat breaking out along Clary's hairline that had no regard for the stinging cold.

"Jesus, Wayland! How long has it been, man?"

It was Jace's obvious apprehension that caught Clary's attention, and she dragged her attention to the man who had—intentionally, she realized—knocked Jace's shoulder.

He didn't have any immediate remarkable features, just a beany drawn low against the cold, with a few wisps of an undistinguishable mousy colour escaping around the edges. He looked like the kind of face Clary would copy paste if she was drawing a crowd scene—generic, unassuming and almost unidentifiable due to plainness.

"Hey, D. A while man, a while." Jace sounded friendly enough, but she caught the way his eyes flicked toward the fast food joint, as though aching how the doors were mere metres away, and the perfect escape from this surprise meeting.

"You're looking good man! You still... you know?"

Jace shrugged, casual to a person who didn't know him. But the movement was too precise, and too carefully executed—an oxymoron in the flesh.

"Nah, did rehab and trying to stay off, you know."

It felt weird to be participating this kind of conversation in such a setting—didn't junkies and heroin only exist in grimy alleyways, or drug dens, somewhere between 1am and dawn? D had too many real teeth and too few gold ones. Or at least, that's how it went the in the gangsters in the films, in HBO drama shows and British crime books.

But, Clary supposed, they'd all lived through their own Christmases, and maybe her thoughts on drug culture were ill-formed and too largely influenced by Breaking Bad.

"Oh hey, good on you, man." It sounded as false as it was, and Clary could see D's mouth twist with the unspoken 'because you lasted so long the last time'. Everyone was thinking it, D just had the good grace not to say it. Even if he did follow it up with, "But if you're ever..." He paused, "Don't be stranger. You know where to find us."

Jace nodded, "Thanks, D. See you 'round."

It didn't sound like a rejection, but it was. D imitated Jace's nod, paired with a friendly pat on Jace's shoulder. With another nod in Clary's direction—the first time he'd acknowledged her in the entirety of the conversation—he stepped past them, continuing down the sidewalk.

Clary wasn't sure what to say, and it seemed—for once—Jace wasn't sure either. He was scratching away at the sleeve under which his track marks lay, and Clary didn't comment.

*

They didn't speak as they sat down, plastic trays fisted tightly in hand as they found a mostly quiet, mostly clean booth.

Jace unwrapped his breakfast bagel carefully, as though silently celebrating their first breakfast together outside the Clinic in almost a month.

"I think cheers are in order," he suddenly declared, presenting his takeaway coffee cup for clinking—or the sound that two flimsy cardboard cups made when shoved together.

She humoured him anyway, recognizing this breakfast as the brink of the undefinable and 'new'.

Whatever 'new' was.

*

They made it back to Magnus' place with no other unwelcome interactions, and their host was surprisingly awake; wrapped in a silken dressing gown and glaring at the sparkling lights on his Christmas tree, which Clary hadn't noticed last night.

"We got you some coffee and a bagel." Jace said gently, laying it gently as close to Magnus as he dared get, as though he were approaching a wild animal.

Magnus' glare shifted from the Christmas tree to Jace,

"I'm up before noon." He sounded shocked and a little angry.

"A true Christmas miracle." The blonde replied.

*

When Magnus warmed—somewhere around two—he mixed and poured three very strong Margaritas, and they group nursed their drinks on the couch in relative silence.

"You know, Magnus," Clary shuffled in a dark purple armchair, "if you have family plans this Christmas, don't feel obliged to entertain us. We're fine alone."

Magnus snorted, "I appreciate your concern, Biscuit. But my mother is somewhere in Jakarta, playing politician's mistress, and my father is apparently that politician. Not that anyone is supposed to know." He winked conspiratorially, as though he'd made a joke.

"I'm sorry—" she quickly stammered out, but he interrupted her,

"No, Clary, I'm sorry. I hate oversharers but Christmas is so cheery it's depressing." He sighed, looking in his drink forlornly as he swirled it, "Not to mention I may have made these a little strong."

Jace—who'd been looking out the window absent-mindedly—seemed to come back to them,

"Explains your charisma."

"Hmm?" Magnus looked up from his cup.

"You're the son of a politician. It explains your charisma."

Magnus snorted again, "And you're the son of…?"

"A Welshman."

"Explains the wit." Magnus returned.

The group fell into silence once more.

"I hate Christmas too." Clary added sullenly, after the final mouthful of her cocktail.

"Why's that, Biscuit?" Magnus inquired, and Clary found herself not minding the nickname.

"It's my brother's favourite holiday. Family spirit, or some bullshit."

Jace stiffened beside her, and Clary knew he was surprised to hear her speaking so candidly of her brother. Normally Clary discussed him as though he didn't exist—dancing around his mere name—but the cocktail had put a bit of warmth in her belly, which masked the usual sensation of ice whenever Jonathan was mentioned.

"You two not on good terms?" Magnus enquired, and Clary shook her head stiffly, worried what she'd say if she opened her mouth.

There was another long silence—Magnus refilled their glasses.

Jace spoke, "I saw one of my old dealers today."

Magnus' eyes narrowed, "To buy, or—"

"By chance." Jace amended, "But he was angling that I should buy again, like he didn't believe my sobriety is genuine." He took a drink, "Fuck Christmas."

The rest of the group muttered in agreement, all enjoying the air of shared disenchantment and the slight buzz from their drinks.

They ate box macaroni cheese for dinner, and Clary dug out some microwave popcorn from the back of Magnus' very empty cupboards. They watched Magnus' favourite Disney movie—the Little Mermaid—which he mouthed the lines to, as he continued to fill their glasses until the group felt almost jolly.

*

It was midnight before Jace and Clary finally crawled into bed, Clary's head swimming with alcohol until she'd almost forgotten what she felt guilty about.

"Hey, Jace?" She whispered to boy tucked around her, knowing from his twitching and fidgeting that he wasn't nearly asleep.

"Mmm?"

"What do you normally do on Christmas?"

He shuffled around a little, "In recent years I've been to Izzy and Alec's place a few times. Other times I was too fucked off my face to remember what day it was. But before that, Michael and I used to spend the day putting together all the boxed food we could—he couldn't cook for shit. Then we'd set up dinner on the floor and watch all the Christmas movies and eat box stuffing and box mashed potatoes and everything you could possibly buy prepacked and ready made, we'd eat it."

She could hear the smile in his voice, and snuggled closer to him, his grip on her tightened a little to accommodate her.

"So Michael was good with you, when you were little?"

Jace hummed in affirmation, "You sound surprised."

"I..."

"Imagined him as a big bad? Yes and no. Michael struggled with addiction years before he knew my father. He was clean through their relationship—and he grew very close with my father. And he was clean for most of my childhood, right up until we moved over here from Wales when I was eight." Jace paused, "You know how I said last night, that if someone gave me a baggie right now, I couldn't turn it down?"

Clary nodded.

"It's like... getting high isn't something you forget about. The desire, and the urge is always in the back of your mind. And without a good support network, and coping mechanisms, you're always at risk of falling off the wagon, no matter how long it has been. That's what happened with Michael. Moving to New York, he lost all that. He had easy access to the scene again, not to mention, access to my considerable inheritance. He fell back into the habit. And, unfortunately, I've got the same addictive personality type as him."

Maybe if she wasn't so drunk, she wouldn't have asked.

"What is it like? Heroin?"

He was tracing patterns up her back with his fingertips, as though he needed something physical to do, as a distraction from his current emotional vulnerability.

"It'll sound cliché anyway I put it," he said quickly, "But it's like every concern slips away. Nothing is of consequence, and you realize all the issues you face are so insignificant and ridiculous that there's no point even considering them. You feel like you're in a perfect fucking bubble bath, where the door is locked and nobody and nothing could possibly get to you. Like you're not even capable of feeling negative emotions, because everything is clouds and warmth, with this calm hum underlying it all."

Clary chewed on his words, and their room was silent until she whispered, "I guess I can see the appeal."

Jace fidgeted, as he seemed to do when he felt a little uncomfortable, "I've just got to remind myself it's not real. Your problems still exist when you're high, and avoiding them with heroin only adds to them most times. It's making yourself sick, just to avoid responsibilities and problems that most other people can surmount."

Clary wished she hadn't brought it up—not enjoying prodding Jace's emotions—but her curiosity never paid much attention.

"Do you miss it?"

He didn't hesitate, "Every day."

She hummed with embarrassment, "I'm sorry I said anything."

It was rare to see Jace so out of his comfort-zone, his charisma and sarcasm usually the barrier he put between himself and most situations.

"No. It's... good. Good to talk about this. Communicate." He nuzzled her hair, "Hodge would approve."

She chuckled softly, "I'm glad."

There was another silence, but this was the first one of a peaceful nature.

"Don't be afraid to ask me things, Clary. I want us to be open with each other."

She nodded against his chest, "I agree."

He was still tracing patterns against her, but his hand was slowing,

"Sleep?" He asked.

"Sleep." She agreed.


End file.
